He would walk for miles carrying items he found in brambles, hedges and puddles. He would take the challenge and burden of carrying these large obstacles, these huge beings, and do his duty. He didnʼt have to. He is eight. Itʼs the kind of thing you feel you need to do when youʼre eight. Because no one else is doing it and you want to do it first. Before someone tells you to. Thatʼs the spirit of being a kid, I remember this.
He would spend the day meticulously scouring for objects he could spend a good while staring at. Running his fingertips over the textures. He would assign them names and places and if something overtook it in the interesting stakes, he would happily discard it without hesitation.
Near the brook with his naked feet and feathers tucked in his hair, it was only then he found me. I was tangled in the brambles, clutching the hedges and spitting in the puddles. I felt him glance at me and then reach for the scattered goods glinting on the ground. I didnʼt say a word. He took his time but he eventually placed a grubby finger on my cheek. Over the empowering fug of burnt engine and rusting blood I could smell mud on his small frame. I imagine grass stains clinging to his knees. I felt the slither of a whistle he let out as he saw the box on the back seat. I could only hear echoes at that point, my chest was otherwise slowly concaving with the pressure of the carʼs frame.
With my beloved waiting for me at my destination Iʼd never reach, my breath escaped one last time as he dropped all that he was carrying and took my box.
Down and down and down.
Absence of light.
No, absence of anything, everything, all things. All things must come to an end. Ending always. In the midst of life we are in death. Here, here in the midst of death. Falling, falling forever down and down. I diminish. Become less. Less. Less than I was, less than I know. Less than nothing; anything. Become something that is nothing. Something, nothing. A descending declension. Further decreased until-
In the midst of death, we are nowhere.
In the midst-
Love Spills In Mysterious Ways
ONE: You haven’t... ANOTHER: I know. ONE: I’m just saying. ANOTHER: You don’t need to. ONE: I’m just saying, that’s all. Silence. Someone walks past. ANOTHER: If I wash my hands then he’s gone. ONE: He went hours ago. ANOTHER: I know. ONE: I’m just saying. ANOTHER: Stop saying you’re just saying. ONE: You can’t walk around with dried blood on your hands. ANOTHER: Who said anything about walking. I’m numb. ONE: You need to go. ANOTHER: I can’t. ONE: You need to. ANOTHER: I loved him, like a brother. ONE: He hated you. Silence. A nurse walks past ANOTHER: I still love him. A door opens. People tumble in.
Circles Can Become Loose
￼I couldn’t tell if you were crying or if it was sweat trickling down. It was raining outside and I knew this because you told me so. You let the words tumble out of your mouth as if they were the first things you’d said. My eyes kept looking at you but my mouth was saying nothing. I think that’s what hurt the most. I’d gone from saying nothing to imagining everything. It meant nothing. We’d been here before with you choosing to stare out and me opting to look at you when you’re unaware. Last time we were upstairs in the old house, this time we were downstairs in the hotel. Each time we make this merry dance, this exchange with words and no words. And we never really position the full stop to land anywhere in particular otherwise we’d really have to think about what came next. Tears, sweat, rain, words. Swept away for another day. Repeat in ___ months. Location optional.
Fragments Of A Burgeoning Moment
You stopped. Looked, then listened.
The snatches of conversation along the footpath.
The low light of the evening spilling onto the dusty sideboard. The feel of the rake stabbing into the hard ground.
The taste of the first cup of tea in the morning.
The pile of blankets that go unused but are forever washed. The books with their spines intact.
The hollow of silence in the chair at Christmas.
And the stark reminder crashed into you like a sledgehammer wrapping itself around you slowly and heavily. As if compiled of gloom and misery, the angular indentations of the well-worn appearance. The familiar sense that you couldnʼt stop keep feeling like this, they were not here to recall anymore. I watch you stop, look, then listen and you think I donʼt notice but I do. Our touches are becoming less frequent and lighter as the years get longer.