They are all without dates.
What it is to love, to hold a kiss. Tenaciously. To promise & connect. But know, know all too well, truly know. It fades. As the snow, the fog, the stars, the time. Your heart beat pounding fainter
Premonitions and knowing too well. Reality knocks on the door. Unwelcome guests are guests all the same. And, in time, they work their way in. Under your skin, behind your eyelids, into the present. They manifest, like steam, into the space that was once before clear. And all the things that once glowed rosy now ghost about in shadows. And you stand, attempting to make sense of the new, sadly real, puppet show of events.
Hauling yourself away only intensifies the shadows. What isn't clear becomes larger. The paradox of unknown but expansive and everywhere persists. The relationship, the knowing, the past and what is, all merging into a sea-like void. Might as well shine a flashlight into the depths of space hoping to illuminate the surface of Pluto. The fine print, which your heart memorized, is scraping your index finger, and has all along, but your eyes were too glossy to let it sink in fully. Until the contract ended and the collectors came to take all the fantasy away.
So I'm sitting in ruin, among the dust bunnies and dead cars on my lot. Counting the clouds, and stars, the pebbles, the homeless cats, and remembering the minutes that brought me close to something real..only to play the train conductor and passage way all at once, shouting 'All Abroad' and steaming away from that spot of ideal.
We'll all hit on it again.
In time.
