Through the window, from outside, the two could be seen in notes of moonlight, quiet at times and then one would stir from their lunar gazing, slowly mouthing words, unheard through the glass. There was a sanctity in these moments and it was not their first full moon. And with each day and month and year, each phase, they wondered if there could ever be a last.
He whispered to himself, “two insomniacs,” gently stirring her from her meditation. He continued in his trancelike reflecting,
“When I am with you, we stay up all night.
When you’re not here, I can’t go to sleep.
Praise God for those two insomnias!
And the difference between them.”
She smiled knowingly, “oh joy! Mevlana does find the right moment to show up doesn’t he.”
He turned to her presence, “perhaps we should just stay awake until the sun comes up.”
This is how goes between them; no different during a new moon, when they become the only two moths in the night, fluttering around one another, intoxicated by their candle flame. It was during one of these many deep discussions that they had found themselves writing elbow to elbow in the mountains of the New Mexico. Neither had ever been here before, geographically nor metaphorically.
“Love is always the topic with us, isn’t it? Is there nothing else we can speak of – I mean, there must be something beyond the reach of our metaphors!” She was quite serious about this. And it left him pondering.
After a few sips of this endless brew of tea, he quietly said, “everything is sacred…”
“…what else can it be? This is why we chase our love around like a thirsty beggars – holding up our cups to the night asking for the slightest sip… when all along we are the Saqi.”
She softly laughed and nodded her head, “yes beloved, each of us is the divine Cupbearer and our heads are like tin cups… opened upward.”
“Ours is a tin cup love I suppose my dear. We are tin cup lovers.”
His eyes watered and a tear slipped down his cheek, “I am filled with you, and I’m overflowing. But yet the lip of this cup is never reached by all your pouring.”
“Everyone hears me, and thinks it is me, and it makes me feel lonely. I am my love, and my love is you and like Rumi says, it is hidden, and it is hidden and it is hidden. They don’t understand, they cannot know… not through us at least.”
She saw his tear and could not help but well up with her own, smiling, “You are translucent my love, and you are the color of your contents – they do not need to see me or you. Only your love. Is this not why we came to this place … to show our love?”
He smiled and sniffled a little, “must you make sense ALL the time?”
