Thursday, June 13, 2013

What Kills Us In The End

Night comes on, steady as a train. The birds sing as if saying goodbye. But it's not a different song than in the morning when I think they are saying hello. So maybe I'm different? After a while you give up thinking and just listen.

"Heartship" was a nice word, in its way. I can't remember who came up with it. I sleep outside because it's quieter, which most people don't understand. Please assure me you do. Pretty soon I'm going to go into a very deep and dark forest indeed, one where my brother waits, with bullet holes in his chest.

We gather up our silence, expecting it to mean something, and are always surprised to learn that it doesn't. We stand in line and profess a silly faith, one in which we don't believe. How I longed to slip my hand across her back and pull her close! Call me a dog, I don't care. Want is only a problem when we say it is.

Ah, but that's all gone now anyway. We visited the lawyer last week to be sure all the ends are well-knotted. Driving home, there was talk about a last trip to the sea, or maybe certain mountains in Vermont. I told a lot of lies is what worries me most. What we don't know - but assume - is what kills us, in the end.

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