I can see her eyes, locked, like a pair of serpeants sprinting stillness in glassy ice, inside her eyes.
Now, it's as if she's come back to me, and she is who I was . . .
It's easier to say yes, to let myself be weighed down. I would have been the happiest fool if I hadn't seen it; yet one day I would. How long would it have taken?
Another day may have been too much, another month and I'd be desolate. A year or a decade?
There is a line somewhere in time, too far to see, and if I'd crossed it . . .
I realized I'm still not over her.
It's strange, I must be worse off than I thought I was. I came home to start the healing process, but since I've been here I've only reopened the wounds in spite.
There are so many wonderful, amazing, beautiful people in this world. Each of them has more to offer than any one can take. In our tragic, blissful exchanges we come out less wholly ourselves, more who we are.
I don't want to talk in riddles. I don't want to live in torment. I don't want to leave anyone I've crossed unhappy. I don't want to fail.
Someday, when the sun breaks diagonals through a kitchen window, when the sky is nothing but a blue wing on the winds of orbit, when I find a moth trapped, dying by the doorway . . . I'll leave everything. I'll change my name, clothes, hair, I won't tell a soul, and I'll go.
If I am to make others happy, if I am to bring others peace, if I am to council and to remedy and to in turn be healed, I must be happy, I must give myself peace, I must remedy my own life's mess so that this black hole can become a grave and I can let go of regret.
I made a mistake. I am a mistake. I'm hoping you'll forgive me.