Mopping the staircase with a ’empty your mind’ reflection is scrubbing the scald in a wound
Staring at the calendar on the wall, it gives me a trickle of drool. I wonder how deep the laceration I have to fill the bucket with fools?
Completing my first round of noughts and crosses, I lament the promises recede from view.
Where are the ‘together let’s go there, the be there next moon, the thinking of you, the te envitaré un dia, the tequila, the pinot grigio and malbec, black coffee and send you updates, Darling?’
Here now defunct in one of the days I imagined, captured in one of the dead-end with an icing in my hand and, impatient in the last two hours.
I weave my own trap, salted my own lesions, graze my own scar by staying inside the limbo of that calendar unapologetic.
Why don’t we see it to the end?
Perhaps we theorize a lot and judge a little when we film our ‘Fifty shades of Grey and Me before You romance’ in our heads privately.
Or like science two positives; they simply repel.
Imprisoned in the calendar not wailing; a void we were guilty of having.
And yes, It’s when fiction ends that reality sifts in.
But know that somewhere in between the two extremes is what intrigues us both and maybe, given the right day and time will make all that difference.
Let us be imprisoned in one calendar suspended.
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