Had I spent just one more week in your arms I would have went on my way. Which direction? Home. Playing ball in the 3rd grade outfield with some miasma of memory hanging over. I should have never left to where I do not belong. The world for a sample of ample time with you. A shadowed haunt that this is too much to bear. Should have never pitched that fever dream towards a taste of cream. Is there a home to return to? Would I be a lone star in the space of a constellation? Having been six years since graduating from high school would seeing them get my fix? Starving dog running through thick fog over rickety bridge, which way to father carrying mutt off by the fence? I had hoped to live this long. Why the rush?
Losing my religion for the third time; reasons in legion with one another. Anhedonia creeping, settling in for the third time. Comedy comes in threes. History comes as farce then as tragedy — to live as my nom de plume: Ophelia. Look and find some river to drown under in. We have a ragged salve of history; no need to take the rag and wash me clean. I understand my place in this story. To be without. To shout as loud as possible before diminishing to ash. I know my name and I know my place. Come and see what I have to show through my time as a fool’s fool’s lover. Here I am standing distantly a thousand miles away from my spouse and parable babe. I have gained nothing but heartache and a few murmured acquittances through tremored hands! Why the rush?
Am I on my way out? I have given enough. There is no sadness in death only reenactment. Yet, I want to keep the story alive. Not necessarily for me or mine but for father time’s sake. When all you need is to rest in someone’s arms every touch feels like a test of veneration. Each finger pressing down like dagger to chest, do I deserve this? Do you like when the pain makes me whimper? Why the rush?
The turning of the seasons, each bringing a new promise. Autumnal wind turns bitter to nocturnal winter’s night to be met with the dawn of spring and the heat of summer’s afternoon. Overhead the moon’s tune plays in G minor as the cows bow down for the night. To depart means to never watch the leaves turn and the wheel spin anew. Why the rush?
Stay a while longer and let yourself linger in doorway.
p.s. I love you <3