I see it coming weeks in advance. Watching a car wreck in slow motion. No effort made to alter trajectory.
The impact is short. Painless. Weightless. Scripted. The exchange of kinetics is an illusion: what appears to be crushed by trauma is, in actuality, the one severing thread and fiberglass. A chased slice of satisfaction bought with hissing guilt and co-conspiratorial selfishness. The debt of it paid with knowing patience and blurry integrity.
I step cleanly from the disaster, feeling nothing.
"You don't look so bad", says the graying man with two faces. Despite doing everything I was ever asked and expected, I'm left again with just my memories. Dreams don't carry enough weight to hold down my longing. The only sensation left to feel, when all of this is said and done, is the brightest of echoing emptiness. A halogen highlighting the nothing within.
12:37 a.m. - 2014-10-07
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