Monday, August 13, 2012

Still.

The inability to go through today without the aftertaste of yesterday in your mouth and the uneasy panic for tomorrow in your gut.

The inability to feel a simple emotion with regard to someone, instead weaving sticky webs of guilt and memory and irritation and bone-deep affection.


The inability to put a thought into words, sentences running off, cutting short, forming a spliced train that winds through desolate landscape, pretending that it has a destination. Imagining someone waiting at the platform, ears straining, heart pounding.