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I'm not sure when it happened;
the snagging. But I noticed the appearance two years ago this fall. At first, it hung like a billowy stranger, waiting to catch the rain. So thirsty. I watched, all last summer. Some days, I could almost hear its whimpers, at high noon, when the sun beat down. Scorched. This winter, I noticed its frailty. No globular shape. Like the elements unplugged its drain and let the life out. So fluid. Today, I still see it. Or what's left. I feel sad as it flaps. Fleshy scraps in the tree. But it's only plastic.
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You had the whole world
of possibilities in your palm, but you didn't know. Eager chances waiting to grow into the man you were becoming. But you didn't know. Quiet opportunities never voiced. Silent achievements hushed in a choice of blurred unknowing. And who is left to count the pieces of what was left in the breeze? Who is left to live the moments you were made to sieze? Vacancies are never left empty. How many times have I
come to you, and placed my dagger at your boot? And how many times have you sliced me with its steely edge? How many drops of me have slithered down the dead skins you tread upon? And how many times will you jump from the ledge to be carried by my corpse? No more. I've set fire to this forge. This bloody metal shall burn. I have known sadness.
I've carried it around. My dead-corpse friend that has plagued me. Sadness never speaks. Silent and daunting, crouched in the dust-bunny corners of my conscious. Sadness will un-box itself at the most inconvenient of times. Unwrapped from its sour coverings like a rotting fruit. Tarnished mush, unglued, I must spoon it back into its timeless crevices. Within the sound of a
thousand laughters, all I can hear is your breathing. Through blankets of bodies on the street, in a field, a battle ground, an assembly line, a hospital corridor, shoulder to shoulder conference room... The only detail I see is your smile. He never calls, anymore.
He never listens for the knocks, bloody knuckles staining the door. He's checked out. Passed along in a daydream of solitude without a thought of who will write her letters. There must be something better than the love she's given. He had fleckeled hair,
but she could see how his strands stretched back to days of deep, forest-brown. Back to days of barn-stompin, truck-muddin, fish jumpin high, chasin skirts on the fly. His flecks of silver still told stories. She, had colored her strands. It was hard enough to live with all of her cracks, flashing like beacons of a broken past. Days of summer loves and spring babies, all on her own. Travel trailers headin for home, pillow tears late night fears with romance so far gone. She was still stunning though, in her kintsugi form. |
AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |
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