credit: j/k_lolz
One of the great tricks that life plays on you is the rumor that there are rules. There are no absolute truths, no constants.
As surely as this life will end; I will fail you. I don’t plan on it, but I expect it. I stand on a corner and watch bicycles the way a cat watches a bird. Waiting for the right breast, the right wing. They know I am looking. They pitter. But, I am a tease I would rather think about consuming them than lurch from my pace.
There is a stop. A breathe that will never come right. One ragged breathe waits there where I met her eye to eye and we set like jelly. There is an hollow that sounds a gap in the world that requires someone to speak, and we speak about nothing. Feeling like if I let the end of that breath go that she will simply be gone; not the thing I see.
Longing is a type of fear. A quiet that my mind doesn’t hold to. Each minute I wait in the bar for the appointed time make the remnant burn in my chest. Waiting for that conversation that so often twists the wrong direction into a place of nothing, just an end. She moves in. Shoulders up, skittish about how this will work; we embrace. The breathe is gone. I wasn’t wrong. But, my breathe is gone. We start with a beer to share our fears and 20 questions that start about you and cluster around me. A rare red flower opens up. I t goes very well, but, ultimately this is our last night together.
