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Break Fast
There is no mistake in continuing to love, yet we allow it to turn scarlet, secret, hidden behind hands or poems. What happens when failure sticks around but doesn’t smell like the half-chewed world? Not much. It is not unlike September, summer in the compost. Like discarding the sun, free time, the assurance of light. We call lost love failure, September, days that grow a little darker until they don’t anymore. It’s a little milder, yet. Not pen-mark red, but a bruise that formed around the sky because we gripped it when we meant to tear our breast, break our bodies, fast for hundreds of minutes, until something dulled. That’s a season, isn’t it, best and worst, and before and after are always there. Summer stained on the lips of Fall. Fall in the belly of Winter. Winter in a loveless marriage until Spring. Spring too frivolous until Summer. I continue to everyone I’ve ever . |
