The Unfinished

010

this one is for my own sanity and for the difference between right and wrong.

* * *

November 2018

We've entered the danger zone.

Too far in to back out, but there are miles left to the story.

It's like flying past red lights on a deserted road leading to nowhere. If you've done it once, you might as well do it again. No harm in that, right?

Look once, look twice. It's the game we play, waiting and watching like predators stalking in obscurity. We skirt around each other, unsure of whether the history we have is enough.

Like lightning ripping the night wide open, the memories of the touch and the sound of you sear cracks into the sky. Seemingly infinite, yet painfully close. Tight. Smothering me like a scorching fire.

So I'll ask myself again, like I did some time ago.

What are we?

Do I let myself remember what we did as an illegality? As those red lights, warning me to stop and to think with my head and not my heart? Do I let myself continue down that road of painted lies and stories I wove for myself because I was too scared to face the truth? Or do I let myself live with it? After all, I am a creature of habit and of stability, of comfort, intimacy, and unmoving truths.

You are made of passion and of pain, of secrets I would rather not know. You are made of the sensuality I hide from because it's just too raw. Too real.

What are we?

Do I smile at you because I want to remember or because I want to forget? Or because I want to shelter my soul from yours? You'll eat me alive, all savagery and superfluity. You'll burn right through everything.

So I'll play your game, of predator and prey, of guessing and prying for an answer that neither of us will get or be satisfied with. And I will be satisfied with that.

What are we?

Do I chase the storm, the wilderness, the stinging, the aching, the crushing? Do I tell myself to be content with what I have? Or do I take and never give back because we're living off of borrowed time?

I can run after the lightning all my life and I'll never learn that fire burns and that I'm not immune to it.

So here's to the moon and back. To shifting sands, whipping wind, and the frantic pounding in my chest. Here's to the dripping sweat, the faint whispers, and the iron hold you have over me. Here's to the seconds, the minutes, the hours, the days, the years, and the centuries I may or may not ever get to find out.

Here's to the everlasting search for reality you couldn't give me, and to the eternal thirst for a knowledge I will never have.