A look that crosses confusedly at the rate of tachycardia pressing, trying to follow and impress upon the memory words as possible, as in the feeling of secretly snatch them from the sight of someone else.
Applications are crowded together, there will be no response, they will not spoken out loud for fear that their sound can reopen an abyss of "if".
Anticipation, hope, opportunity, forgiveness, love stabbing, tears, night, the night sky long questioned, words spoken in the air to cover the distance ... it's all already burned, played the first time in a rash, as in a casino without consequences. But we still carry with us the debt of our sins, and this we know, both.
'The show must go on', but this is already known. It's the 'how' remains a mystery.
Maybe it was the moment, perhaps we were to be mismatched, maybe it was those around us, maybe it was all that and nothing at the same time.
Perhaps, after all ... I force myself to breathe, I mean. Maybe I should live more than to sip wine instead of ruminating on his life. Maybe I could really drink a glass of wine. If only I had a rocking chair and a porch, so that it would be the perfect place.
Close to Heaven, were enough to hear your thoughts but not enough to let me carry in his wanderings.
In a sweet purgatory, which is what most suits me.
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