Across the world and in places I’ve never been, I have seeds planted, doors left open, ellipses outstretched and dangling between held-breath and the question of whether ‘could have been’ and ‘could still be’ are mutually exclusive. I haven’t forgotten everything that’s suspended. Those recurring voices—or the sullen dots that show where voices themselves fell short—may be what haunt me most. They have the same effect as a long gone lover suddenly naked in your own bed again…the time in between collapses, there’s something more powerful at work than those seams we rely on.
In a world less turbulent I would settle my accounts, but they’re scattered mid-sentence, which is perhaps the only way we know to stop talking. It’s the choice between the finality of a single period, or the longing of three side by side.
I don’t get a chance to catch my breath, and probably that’s a blessing. Things hatch always—from the most unexpected breeze, a piece of glass I never see until it’s in my foot, even a love note that’s suddenly there and all I did was open my hand to find it.