and so, the process began: a
sweet little trace, across the road.

held open a wound just to
catch a minute of movement. nothing
transcendent. wouldn't have
wanted to lose touch so
soon. still, with stoic fate
up on high, with strings tied
to first-knuckle joints. some
opportune fortune, stealing
glances at loss of traction.

trembling aside, lack of sleep
aside, rhetorical fervour lain,
now, out in fields. i didn't
have to swear, up-down-left
-right, to untold ideology;
to hold joy, in wavering palms.

all yet, in an ocean not unlike sleep.

this minute yields to the same
fallacy, the well-wrought plan-
those with no
splinter in the work fine enough to
sink in to. sequence of sweet ideals;
series of increasing differences,
mounting, ebbed tide, mumbled
sentiment. petals that don't unfold.

out amongst the reflections of mid-
afternoon, i sit and will likely
keep waiting for something that
never comes, on the off-chance
that you'll come
home.