The kiln of waiting.
Without love, wandering around the endless chores of dusty lungs and braking bones and ground down skin, and burning flesh.
The purgatory time of waiting and thinking of lost love.
There is comfort in repeating what has been done a million times by finger ghosts of my ancestors.
Invited in by the succubus weed to flirt with you down memory lane. Forgotten beauties that sworn not to be forgotten: the repetitious line
And I dive down into the sticky thick mire of clay and memories, stuck....
And he remembers me from a far with a dramatic "hey, Sam! How's it going?" like I were being greeted upon my arrival into heaven for the first time. I see my bowl... " you got old"
Age and death taking their tax each year until we arrive here. Where we started. 10 years later in the exact same position, doing the exact same thing. Something I swore I would never do.
This repeating vortex of repeating events that steals a little off of your soul with every pass.
One moment at a time. One step in front of each other.
Driving the same direction, in the same way we did the same way 10 years ago. Tired and dirty and ready to explode into something great.
The tax this year has been great. There is now less of the substance remaining to explode.
As I remember the past pleasantness and anxiousness , I breathe in deep the thickness of stasis slumbering
There are certain interactions that are inevitable. And while this memory was a moment of heaven, the moment of hell will come. Or maybe it's already been paid.
The ghost of the cup climbed onto my wrist as I brought my memories into the light. I flung it away as reflexive fear flung the memory. Smashing it's essence into shards. The 8 legged homeless nomad went on its way to another home.
And every story has always led to, started from, or ended with you . Our beginning and ending will always be my life story. From the moment when I first saw you, to the last moment that I will ever see you. This is my story. I chose this story.
