Block

The final sighs of an exhausted heart. It’s a slow death, a toxic buildup of all that was unspoken, unwritten, unadmitted, repeated in a restless mind that sometimes likes to follow the rules. Those sheets of paper, that pen, traveled endlessly and waited for place and purpose to explode in black and white. It was opened and closed, the light blue ribbon removed and replaced square in the middle of sandy, stained pages. The pressed clover from the Redwood Forest tucked in the front cover of a deceptively happy notebook with its glittering face. The entries shorter and shorter. The words, when they came, clinical. Distant. Sterile. Like fluorescent lights flickering against reflective linoleum that needed to be changed.
Time. A bottle of red wine. Time. A flask of gin. More time. And nothing. Even that night when the rain came pouring down against the dark pool, back flat against the slow waves, chest pelted with sprays from the storm, words fell from eyes along stoic cheeks and mixed with all the water but never met the page.
It’s with great shame, too, because that conversation replays like a movie watched when sleep is evasive and sleep is pretty evasive these days and maybe writing down that dialogue and those looks and all that wasn’t said and the lighting in that brick room and the scuffs on that wood floor and the taste of that cold lager and the way fall smells by the river and the song that played that I’ve sung for years with wet eyes and a tired voice and the heaving body cry alone in the parking lot will be a sort of revival. Or maybe it’ll be the final pulses, the final beats, the final sigh of an exhausted heart.

 

Written, finally, with the shells of exhausted creatures. October 1 2018.

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