I wonder as the days go on about someone I haven't seen in a long time.
I constantly wonder like a sentence that does not end.
Something like this:
Could it be...
an embrace?
Eligie to a romance?
Obsession of a possible soulmate (if real)?
Grief over an abandoned bond?
Honest love (on one side, then did that love exist? (still a question...))?
or a simple agony that remains after loss?
These words are the only thing that runs out of my blood.
I have none other to say if barely anything at all.
But these thoughts still find me and move me to this unsettling position.
Where I write about the passage of time and the results of life and the sin of myself and the world which all goes according to the great fall of man which leads me here.
I caress around the wound:
A wound that seems to sting even now, ages later showing itself as a scar.
About a period in my life that still writes itself.
To the never-ending drafts and unsent letters.
To the boy with a mouth full of plums and a purple smile as I recall in my memory on a spring afternoon visiting my family, now so long ago.
Perhaps one of the last days spent together.
Grown and dispersed across the girls of the city.
I was devoted yet to no one.
And I still remember and distinctly feel the cold burn of each night.
And the hot ache of each day.
And every monotonous tone of the in-between of every- damn- thing- without- him.
And I pity the adolescent girl kissing her way toward suicide.
Crawling miles to be by his side.
As she descends into hell.
Yet I am deeply grateful for her suffering.
Because the taste of hell keeps me to this day, at bay.
