We wake up to the same shit we once refused to sit with. Except this time we do not go back to old ways of dealing old ways of healing old ways of leaving. Whatever it takes, distance, space, massaged heartbreak, corrected mistakes, a warm embrace. For our sake, for us to make it, it is worth a shot.The viscous elephant in the room refuses to go unnoticed until the cracks in her skin are soothed by the lotion of love. We must nurture the silence between us, we must thank each other even when we do not make sense, we must listen to hear and not to respond. Or react, in tact this love may no longer be, but it is still worthy of tending, of mending, of following the sky back home if there is such a throne you and I can still share.If that castle in the sky is still engraved with my blood, then we might make it. If we reverse these spells if we proceed to still make love like no one else matters then we might make it.Strong on our own although wiser together feathers swim between my fingers to remind me of what was soft, of what was delicate, of what was precious. This rage of us not being on the same page will no longer consume me, will no longer confuse me.
This back and forth must end before the day does.