It's three quarters of a mile from love to oblivion. I would know, I've walked the path back and forth a thousand times. Counted the stones off the sidewalk. Commited each tree to memory. Some days I arrive at my own ruin weary from the violent sun, short of breath, my entire being like a camera out of focus. I think, I will go in and not come out. If only you knew, how I lay down, sweaty and ill, how I force myself to be silent and want for nothing, the skin of my arms spread across the cold hard tile of the kitchen floor. So much more in contrast then to know me on those days my heart leaves me behind, runs outside of these rooms and out of the house, forgetting the heat. How swiftly it goes over that hill, desperate to be down it, the lens opening wider, wider. Infatuation, a heavy bag of literature books I borrowed from life and can never return. Sadness is knowing I cannot stay here forever, no house to be found inside of love. It is nothing but open space, endless sky, shards of sun like rain.