Exhaust, repeat.
If time could tell,
it would tell you that it can heal
but it can't mend distance
and that only your own anchors will put you in the moment
or thinking back when or waiting until then.
A succinct epilogue, a certain afterthought that ends
as he plucks a rusty chord on his guitar and
lets the song beat at the shore of memory again and again
until he forgets
her hands, waltzing with conversation and shaken
by day, light illuminating an avalanche of dust
in the glass attic where she keeps her thoughts, a word ocean,
tidal waves, little earthquakes,
erupting into laughter
and the tabletop trembles with her hands
over into a future he has thought out so fully
that every autumn will feel familiar with its creases,
all the pages will be dog-eared, and no one will have to see
his face when he cannot hide it being fearful,
fear being full of surprises,
for when he is surprised he is only frightened
of another mistake made
sandcastles that crumble every now and then
but tumbling walls mean momentarily everywhere-view
and chances to build turrets up from the ground
and see it again as if new
walls of sand, which becomes glass, which becomes windows,
and walls are windows, and through the ways we construct ourselves
we can see inside to all the corridors and chambers
that open and close like our eyes and mouths and heart valves
and willingness to
the uncertain epilogues we can't predict
and choose not to exhaust.
Exhaust, repeat.
It comes in waves, whether it be
to mend destroy. Emotion,
a cracked smile, a bruised knee.
