The pavement is slick with memories. I trudge towards my car, wanting in a way only to rev the engine and speed away into the slippery night--to forget that twinge to pause my life and go back three months, back before my perspective changed. But I turn away, returning the keys to my pocket, and walk uphill into the soft patch of light from the streetlamp. I take in the scene, so alike yet so different.
~
There we were, taking in the gentle crickets' song, the sky spattered with stars, and the long-lost comfort of the other's presence--a familiar presence that I had definitely missed. Out in the great wide world beyond I had seen and experienced, but now, here, I was living. The August evening brushed up against us, soft and balmy, clear and reflective. Despite the months apart, we were one now. That welcome home was the best I've ever had. There and then, he was my savior--from insecurity, from wanderlust...I found my home in that moment.
And it is true, that moments can last a lifetime. That words can paint a picture that the eyes cannot see. That some of the greatest music is silence. But such moments have to end. Such words can settle heavy on the conscience, and consume it until only guilt remains. Guilt not for what I am, but what I should be. The silence from within is deafening. This intermezzo must end.
~
The November breeze worms its way into my jacket, reminding me of my solitude. It seems to be pulling something out of me--the memories relived. Yet, their warmth is chilled by reality. By how things turned out. The stars that comforted are obscured, and raindrops threaten to spill out of the thick gray lid on the earth.
That seems to be the only thing left: a frigid world dipped in solid ambiguity.
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