We've settled into a nice, easy
truce. The fire has died.
Passion is a ***** word. It's easier
not to speak of love. That way
we don't miss it so much. Twenty
years have passed by in a blink.
Twenty years of oblivion, of détente.

Was it ever any different?
I can't remember. I've grown
accustomed to the malaise. Yet,
I want more. I need more. Wouldn't
it be nice to just be spontaneous,
just know an ounce of passion
about something.

I'm straining at the bit.
I want out. I am looking for an open
door; but I have to close this one first.
Put the dry past behind me.  
You'll be behind the door
called "Bad Memories."  I'll be walking
out the door called "Surprise."