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 corners and watch bicycles the way a cat watches a bird. Waiting for the right breast, the right wing. They feel me looking. They pitter. But, I am a tease I would rather think about consuming them than ever lurch from my pace.
There is a stop; a breath that will never come right. One ragged breath waits there, still, 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 breath is gone. I wasn’t wrong. But, my breath is gone. We start with a beer to share our fears and 20 questions that start about her and cluster around me. A rare red flower opens up. It goes very well, but, ultimately, this is our last night together.