and so, the process began: a sweet little trace, across the road.
held open a wound just to catch a minute of movement. nothing transcendent. wouldn't have wanted to lose touch so soon. still, with stoic fate up on high, with strings tied to first-knuckle joints. some opportune fortune, stealing glances at loss of traction.
trembling aside, lack of sleep aside, rhetorical fervour lain, now, out in fields. i didn't have to swear, up-down-left -right, to untold ideology; to hold joy, in wavering palms.
all yet, in an ocean not unlike sleep.
this minute yields to the same fallacy, the well-wrought plan- those with no splinter in the work fine enough to sink in to. sequence of sweet ideals; series of increasing differences, mounting, ebbed tide, mumbled sentiment. petals that don't unfold.
out amongst the reflections of mid- afternoon, i sit and will likely keep waiting for something that never comes, on the off-chance that you'll come home.