There used to be a river
we would visit in the days
before you found something
more and chose to move on.
The one that began high in
the slumbering peaks to the west and
drained out into the endless ocean
somewhere east of the sandy
Carolina shores we always
said we'd visit one day.
But in those grassy plains
where we roamed
for so many years,
it was simply one more
winding country road
that never went anywhere,
but at the same time,
always ended up somewhere.
I remember the day we built
a raft like two lonely Twainian
characters searching for freedom
and then ended up floating past
the pyramids of our very own Cairo.
That night we camped out
next to the river and tried to listen
to it's Nirvana preachings,
but never heard anything more
than the pain of the cities it
crossed through to reach us.
I fell asleep to the Buddha songs
of the nightingale that evening,
but you must've heard something more.
You always did here more than me.
Maybe that's why I wasn't surprised
the next morning when I woke up
and you were gone.
The only things you'd left behind
for me were an empty sleeping bag
and a set of soft footprints, headed north,
imprinted in the moist morning ground.
They were seemingly in search
of something you couldn't
find along these shores.
Vasudeva's river has grown
soiled and worthless,
and you have left it behind.