After Falling Down. Again.

A passerby,
that is to say a person passing by,
might have wondered at me
on my back
in the ditch
with my mouth open
in the rain,
but, since no one was,
that is to say passing by,
no one did,
that is to say wonder.

And, really,
it was not so much
a rain that fell
as it was a mist
that drifted
and my mouth
was not so much open
as it was ajar.

Still, I was not comfortable
alone
in a ditch
in the mist
on my back
with my mouth ajar,
but the company I longed for
was long fled.

She had not so much fled
as she did just turn her back upon me
and move in one of the infinite number of
directions that led her away from the place
where I lay
on my back
in a ditch
in the mist
with my mouth ajar,
but to say she left slowly
would be a lie.
That is to say not true.

There is comfort, though,
that is to say a kind of consolation,
in knowing that when I
finally close my mouth
and rise from this ditch
and wipe the moisture from my face
and choose one of the infinite number of
directions that lead away from this place,
the chances are quite good
that I shall find her.
That is to say,
she will find me.