Tuesday, May 16, 2006

On Writing

No matter how many times I've tried to leave, he always keeps coming back. A wasted love affair. A product of youth and heady days beside a sun-soaked sea. I've even looked for other men, flesh and blood and bone, all false and true and treading the gray of this world and back again. Nothing lasted. No one stayed. Except this. Except him.

And now, look at me. I'm running away again, burying myself in the needs of the moment, ignoring the fatal tug: just a simple rule of gravity, invisible, always there threading the edges of my day, mere seconds slipping between times like this, when I am told that I should, I must, I have to. He is there, waiting, half-shadowed, and everything just tumbles down.

I can feel it now. That approach towards that fall, that familiar and strange stumble and fall, defiant act of creation and destruction, forgetting and remembering, sliding into a second skin, the wash of words and love and knowing that you are simply here...

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