“There are no second acts.” Floating is not done in hallways so much as among them. The act is passive, and the longer it continues, the closer it gets to becoming a state. Flickering fluorescents douse relentless. Synapse scorch and burn relation.
…
Just as quickly as she had come, she was gone. Plans jotted on bar napkins suddenly seemed messy and incomplete, their authors’ incoherencies faded on cheap materials. There’s never a phone call when the good ones leave you. The absence of contact starts growing in the subconscious before you understand it’s over, and still you dial, and wait, and time, and prepare, and voicemail ramblings never sounded so unsure. She knew, and the moment she heard my voice, somehow, I knew, as well.
Trees previously leveled were erected like buildings. Their shade, normally a relief, instead shroud possibility and fence me out. Lines drawn, boundaries laid, and I, tired, recovered with a struggling sigh. The eight and four would remain a yellow bird to chase strictly in spirit, no more in shape. It was still late in the summer season, but I felt September’s chill creeping up my bones.
© 2012