4th September 2009
Momentum. Slide down the slope and you should come back the other side, surely? Once slid, we’re too old for sliding back. That’s all in the past. Fanatics dream of your hand closing. A giant hand and giant grasp closing slowly on everything. As a taking hold. As a crushing. As a comforting caress. Poke the sentimentality and it slinks off embarrassed, leaves only cold, drunken lust…
Footprints left in the soil. Don’t you dare follow them; it’s unspeakable to find the culprit.
Forgo the luxury. Forgo the key promises. Forgo the priority of biology. The imperative of finding and then searching in what you’ve found. Once more at a loose end. Play games. Powerplay with malice or light heart.
So, you think it’s over. While the blood’s still warm the memory’s pumping too. In seething pulses, in rising tides and ebbing flows.
Catch me once. I remember the beach. I remember the fall, and I’ll always remember that I couldn’t catch you back. I backed away and tried to catch myself. Mid slid, mid fall. An impossibility.
The tide receeds, the wind sings in the trees, and I sing in the waves.