Languid locking phrases fill my head, of course, now of all times, when there’s nothing left to say.
What does “over” mean anyway? It seemed over before, but it wasn’t. Some experts say that time is cyclical, or time is all at once, in which case it must must must be possible to re-visit the time in stage wings that now lurk deep in the feathers of my wounded body. Just one more time. Just for the kiss that was un-cluttered by savagery and broken pines, one last time.
But the hell of it is, the only way to achieve the innocence of early love is to move forward beyond this rupturing pain to green pastures under a different surname.
Summer of blindess; of rawness.
Where emotions are high but I blink them away. They come back in your faded form. And I’m stuck closing the door on our once vibrant statues, locking them in oblivion: huddled in a beautiful embrace.