i walk this cold quiet like it’s dead skin. cautious. observant. this path is worn before me, behind me. there was life coursing through here once. i smell the sweet stink of it. the pungent urgency of human need hangs long. now though there are only strings of white frost, the crack and thrum of winter river, and the hollow lost echo of my own footsteps. i am wedged uncomfortable between the dead and the dying.
we can live in fear of losing the things we love, or we can love the things we love, but it’s near impossible to do both.
i want to narrow so fine, so slight, so focused, my view that all i can see without the full turn of my body is your hips, tiny lines of code heavy with elegance and creativity, and staggeringly beautiful pockets of light come captured through expensive german glass.
you can try to meet hate with deference. or calm. or patience. you can try to meet small dark untrusting hearts with openess, weakness or triviality. you can ignore, avoid, or disregard. you can fetter here and there wasting time or energy on small people with small agendas thinking small thoughts.
or you can confront hate with hate. heat with heat. and allow the beauty of violence to discharge any unresolvable differences in character.
What goes on in here, doesn’t concern you.
sometimes an eye closed must be a kinda peace. sometimes.
what makes you think you deserve love at all?
