Writing In Storms

The 10:32 train just signaled its last goodbye, but not the ever lasting goodbye.
As did our last night offshore from reality. I slept in your bed, and you slept on the only spot you felt close enough to me. Enough to indulge one last time before I left on the last train.

10:45 and I’m half-asleep and caressing the space between your warm, breathing flesh and this invisible bond we’ve created over the past years.

Suddenly, delirium confuses me and I’m absorbed by the curvature and mold of our bodies, combined, but not yet intertwined; cold from the open window, cold from the silence, cold from silence.

I lay asleep. And you as well. Of course, I’ve awoken in knowing what’s in store, already aware, already prepared. I’m shifting your heavy heart and knotted limbs, not worried about waking you, but worried about discomforting you. I’m slipping away, and you know it needs to be done, and you won’t do anything about it, except have me empty the contents of your space, in my heart, where I’ll miss you the most, leaving only one thin veil from your imagination, so I am damn sure who I grown accustom to.

I won’t share your vision, nor will I find a genre of similar style. The death that comes from knowing is a life worth losing. I’m wasting mine away, on the fate of this actualization, the neurological rarity of my self-enlightenment, devious and appropriate; like a paradox without the ‘insofar’ – the ‘extent’ of ‘knowing.’

The evolutionary revolution. That’s how the storm told me to leave you. If nature could relive each and every element, and inevitably die again, what makes us think we can’t be involved in a similar principle. Discipline is people telling you that humility is humiliating , that different is odd, and the awkward we seem, the dishonorable we are. I say, we mask the threshold with a desire to indulge, and devour, and induce.

11:18
Outside. I lock your door slowly, and tuck your keys behind the clementine toned flower pot with dozens of cigarette butts. I’m certain you’ll find it in the morning. You’ll begin the routine of walking outside during the hours I’d usually come to visit and you’ll reenact waiting for me, just as you dreamt it.

11:25
Northbound.

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