I am going down tonight
into the particular dark
that asks nothing of tomorrow.
Friday I surface briefly—
Davis, a few hours,
the blunt rehearsal of almost-edges,
what doesn't cut
but teaches the hand
to remember.
No marks.
No evidence of having been
anywhere near the blade.
The long way home
is partly so I don't drive
through the small hours alone
with only the road
deciding.
But Saturday—
ten-thirty,
eleven at the latest—
I am still
getting
to where you were.
Mar 18
Mar 18, 2026 at 4:50 PM UTC
I am going down tonight
into the particular dark
that asks nothing of tomorrow.
Friday I surface briefly—
Davis, a few hours,
the blunt rehearsal of almost-edges,
what doesn't cut
but teaches the hand
to remember.
No marks.
No evidence of having been
anywhere near the blade.
The long way home
is partly so I don't drive
through the small hours alone
with only the road
deciding.
But Saturday—
ten-thirty,
eleven at the latest—
I am still
getting
to where you were.
This piece tracks the distance a person keeps from harm, and the quiet discipline of not crossing certain lines.
