Not the product nor conclusion, but the case that merely holds it.
The theory that posits without endeavoring to ever actually prove it.
You are but the hook, the hanger, the mannequin that displays the lifestyle you'll never have the courage to actually wear outside the store that made it.
Doomed to hide in other peoples' lives.
Relishing the moments when someone else is reflected in the mirror.

Soft-wedged between twin expanses of amber sky,
the lemon form of the most delicate cloud I've ever seen:
ripples of cotton billows in purest white
floating high above my supine body.

Barely held within, the coalescing vapors of an imminent torrent;
a secret shower to which I am the sole divulgent.

To the south, a tower stands *****, twitching in the wind as if with anticipation. Its weather beacon gleams with a pattern indicating a sudden downpour.

Oh, dear gossamer form of cotton sweetness, how you swell and darken, distending pregnant with your promised release.
From white to translucent as the first drops can be seen,
granting a coveted glance of the inner-workings to mother nature's daily intimacies.

Drenching me in bliss that stings and blinds.
Purifying this ***** earth by choking out every stray flying thing that exists between you and me.
Mouth agape and mind blank like fowl that can't help themselves from looking away,
drowning on one divine mouthful.

No, I wasn't thinking about what tomorrow is, or her, when I called you. (If you couldn't tell from me not mentioning it.)
I was just glad to finally catch you at a decent hour, to hear about how you've been doing; to hear about how your daughters have been doing.

To be honest, I didn't even know that day was coming up.
I'm still trying to catch dad at a decent hour to wish him a happy belated. (That's been my parental focus lately.)
As for tomorrow, well, I've never really cared for that particular day, or her, to be honest.
(You already know this.)

I never did tell you how beautiful I thought your eulogy was.
I thought about it for months (years) afterwards.
How you somehow managed to only focus on the good, or, no, that's not quite right.
Rather, how you managed to make all the bad somehow seem not so bad. As if our lives had been enriched, rather than impoverished by it. But like, it wasn't even a trick, spun by some spin artist.  
It was genuine, and a testament to your ability to forgive,
and with you being the eldest, and having received the brunt of it . . .  
I just thought, you know, like, maybe . . .
well, you know, maybe I have told you already how beautiful I thought it was.

Sometimes, I think of responses to things, or things I'll say to people in my head (over and over again,) but then I forget whether or not I ever got around to actually saying them to the person I intended to.
Sometimes, I say them to someone else instead.
Or else, I say them to the person I meant to, but forget that it's already been said,
and so I say it to them over and over again.
Hammering them over the head with repetition upon repetition on repetitive hammering hits on the head, over and over again -
deaf to whatever they might have said in response or defense.

Sometimes, I fear, I'm turning into our mother, in that sense.

The grizzled general grinned,
this was it. The enemy stood no chance.

"Alright men, chaaaaaaaarge!"

The ground shook with their thundering steps, the sky split from their bloodthirsty roars. The bravest of men would've sent his chainmail chittering from the shakes at the sight of it, yet the enemy stood their ground. In fact, they held their positions as if they were frozen to the sands.

Seconds before impact, the general realized something wasn't right.

It was already too late - on either side of the charging column, the arid land sprouted with life. Not flora nor fauna but full grown men sprang up, tossing away their dun-dyed coverings while simultaneously readying their javelins.

They loosed them at the charging men just as they met the armored dummies they'd erected days before.

The general ground his teeth as the left and right edge of his company collapsed. His left, then right eye twitched as the flanking forces squeezed against what remained of his army.

It was over in minutes. His men, decimated.

He'd never lost a battle before.

He spat, cursed, then urged his horse forward at a gallop to meet his fate. He'd finally been outmatched.

The glow of streetlight bled through rows of aluminum,
streaking the scene in shadow.
An off-season quiet stirring in the bones,
and the intermittent flash of a moth's wings.
The echo of cicadas drowning out everything.
A hum to follow you home.

The dimpled back of the banshee that haunts your hollows,
as inescapable as the back of your eyelids.
The acid in your veins, the same pH as the bile you spent your youth spewing onto unsuspecting plants. Poor things.
Pouring whatever you can down gullets, gutters, toilets -
fancying yourself freed from the fiend that had been keening deep inside your bowel.
Romanticizing the expectorant as some kind of exorcist, ridding yourself of the demon you spent the entirety of your childhood feeding.

At some point you will have ridden all the rides.
Sampled all the options.
Tasted every entrée.

Your life, an archive of reviews
compiled into a guide
that led you nowhere.