Good Morning

These are things too. Down that same road up the black street, the view from the corner of the eye stretched along all the way still to go. Paused for breath. Just waiting for the same spark again. To say that it’s alright, that it’ll come to pass, that it will.

Months later, the road creeps still in the recesses of nowhere. Like a battered twig that’s been sitting out, blackening in the rain. The determination it took to get rid of those scraps of paper we folded up into tiny squares withered along with it. The words became general. Universal. And all we had left was the desire to keep walking down that black street.

Narcissism, maybe. Or the inability to reconcile the thoughts and the actions, the abstractions and the actual.

How much energy does it take to fill a sunken ship?

A brown board pinned with rectangle-fuls of all the past places. Where we balanced glass bottles in one arm and paper bags in the other; where we pushed our fingers to leave red imprints on the base of them. All these. One day the mist in the air will yellow them at the edges and rot them away. What will you do then?