We
are all train wrecks of some sort.
Crumbled up loose leaf, roofing shingles, speckled blood flecks on a
shirt, smiles at a flower petal on a casket, hospital room, a wedding, a
graduation lily, a furry canine nuzzle staring up with saucer eyes beaming like
peaches waiting just waiting for the moment where that scent that has been
dissipating before the sun rose returns as a door opens. We are all waiting for or heading towards
doors figuring it out as we go.
I
contemplated silence would speak a version of an answer and given time’s scroll
the formality of asking would in turn dissolve the pill of how you were feeling
about this or I would get a phone call.
Texting is so awkward; it is my least favorite form of
communication. My internal impression of
where this was going shifted after the texts you sent that Thursday into an
approximation of deceleration, not necessarily halt, but a moment of catching
breath, contemplation.
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