essays on love, an epilogue

"It was never my choice" screams the blind hand of loss. To see the dawn of any morning other than the fog. The full eye of melancholy. The refresh of again. What new sun shines past the footnotes and explanations. Over whatever road came into view, and the dirt. The backwards route of getting lost. And the uselessness. For all it taught me will be water in my life. Change as a Christmas card. Reminders in the soup, of somewhere I once knew. Not another story, or the way I felt it needed shoving. My own two hands, and tales of lines I knew were best, and afraid. Wouldn't it be adaptable to put myself into a chair? Always hearing history, when I listen. Icicles are another page in a tome of my world. No two pages alike, no sentiment unseen. There, as needles drip languid for awakening. And the spit of being done. Whatever I lined my bed with, it's making me uncomfortable. Where sleep sees me under. The promise of my insults, that slowed so freely, and lovingly. And gave you strength against me, the wrongs which were under every breath. Wooden floors, which called me to them. Always driving, always driving, always driving. Silence of age. The tiny drawings lead to something. We're all creations.