Walking home on ice and compacted snow I want to say I crunched. My steps crunched. But I listen to the sound. Over and over the sound of a step. There is not a crunch. At least not every time. The sound is more voip-voip-voip. At first I think I hear woip-woip-woip. No. The beginning of the sound is more like the biting of my lower lip. A “wu” sound is like a kiss. “Vu” is a bite.
The heel hitting ground is harsh reality “Vu”. The toe lifting away is hopeful, fanciful “oip”. “Oip” is an accident. 10,000 accidents an hour. The bite is intended. The bite is direction. The accident is a dream. A defiance. The bite acceptance.
I did not know what it was ‘til someone said “Read what I write, I blog”, so I did read the page but did not stay, seeing a slight opening, fell through into a Plot Hole somewhere else where there was a rhapsody on my city and on life that you wrote just for me (did you know?) a follower unknown I became even stopping with my Dulcinea del Toboso at the Cuban café wondering if I would see you, recognize you drinking tea with your family, laughing, sharing, but I never did (did I?), unknown, following your eternal-life evoking prose when one day it was gone and The Plot Hole lived up to its name but with hope I searched, found nothing but whispers and ghosts of promises, an unknown follower, waiting to open a message you’ll never know reached me.