091. Möbius

circles, spirals, repeated patterns are on my mind today. Neha Bawa's wonderful poem "circles" says it better than I could, so I am concentrating on the images rather than making my words live up to the clarity of hers.

I lose track, of how many times we have been around this loop. Since it is infinite, I guess both for ever and not once. We talk, seriously to start with, of friendship and only friendship; we talk seriously about what more than friendship would mean; we coil and recoil and one of us sticks their toes into the succumbing pool of flirtatiousness and we are whisked away, over and under, dizzying and knowing we will be spun out sooner or later. Spun out to a time in the cold, a time that seems forever until the next time.