She Never Told Me Her Name
This is not an end, despite the exhalation of air, I had not done living. temporary asphyxiation on thoughts about thoughts, an indefinite looping refined with each year that passed like a runaway train desperately clinging to a rusted track. I once swore allegiance to a compartmental life, boxed activities and cardboard cut-out friends, an absence of mind and declaration of fate, positively pointless and purposefully destroyed with every step, this time i’m not coming down. It seemed like days, but the seconds remained decidedly suspended and elegantly disused. Sand draining through hour-glasses creating patterns in my mind, a spectral illumination, saturated in colour, contrasted with pale hues. I once stopped to think about the words that I wrote, a disintegration of letters and paragraphs revoked. This is not an end, this is a perfect beginning.
(February 2005)