And maybe there was a time when letters sent from here were better too. There used to be a poetry to it but now . . .

*

Why bother being away when here has no shame? Always all that was ever wanted was to be with another where harmony was. Where harmony is. Where the sound of music is beautiful. Where cold is only another reason to stay inside. Where being with another is the only belief made. Where pretending also is shared. Where the future is a composition.

*

                                    “The moon returns, and the spring; birds

                                                warble, trees burst into leaf;

                                    But love, once gone, goes for ever and

                                                all that endures is the grief.”

                                                                                                (Mathilde Blind from Love in Exile)

*

Such sap has stuck to fingertips and is being rubbed onto pages and is being spread from being felt on skin to being felt deeper. The syrup runs through the mind. The sentiments are there to make the medicine go down easier. But, nothing is saccharin when it comes to Love applied and in practice. Love, in theory, is artificial and tainted with bitterness along with the sweet.

*

Holes unused gather dust where hope was to be planted. Something will fill. To fulfill is more likely than to dispel.

From dust to dust, ash to ash – holes left open are closed eventually in more of the same self and stories of origin. How hope is one with life, one with death. How fulfillment is itself a cycle hoping to reach for more of itself. Reliance is dependent upon the reliant – however reliable. Conclusions are inconclusive so endings askew or maybe skewed mean to say, "carry on and have no fear to stray the course." One needs to misread the signs left in the falsity of endings in order to hold onto hope for truer beginnings.

*

Story, backstory, life story – what’s worth lingering on? Where’s the relief in reliving?

If the answer was ‘no’ what’s to be done with the rejection? An orbit for a response; something for night to put its circumference around?

Tenacity, and how much more effort to snap links with archaisms?

*

Today is tiring. Ghosts chase and in this race, the finish is back at the start. Never is the heart left even as it leaps, skips, stays silent through pursuits. Steam rises from former mistakes thawed swift past water stage. Steam ejects from pipes as pistons engage – on vapors, phantoms take comfort.

In movement, the soul is easier to find, hunt, attack. Passion is wasted in patience. And pride follows, pushes, prods. In vain, invention is innovated from vanity to make most of arrogance. Movement is movement, after all.

Esteem how ever faulty is fuel, will wind up finding a route in dead ends, wrong turns, detours. A straight line without distractions however fast will never last as long in memories as a distracted path of revelations and resentments.

Dark lowering onto destination is no deterrent. Only says, in lateness there will be fashion trends to set for straining eyes. Call it an attitude.

*

Chances are not meant to be given but taken.

*

Forgiveness, forgiven for giving. To give in. To give up.

Apologies will be accepted not demanded. Apologies will be offered if beneficial.

Anything to keep the peace. Anything to get some peace.

*

If only forgetting was really the same as riding a bike. If only it was always possible to forget no matter how much of life was spent not forgetting. To be able to let go would be so easy if there were no memories which are sprung from each trap set to remind one only of what it was like knowing that somewhere there were arms into which to go.

And with these notes, these books, only more of so many former situations recorded as no new experience comes to compete.

Kenning (FKA Kenyatta) Jean-Paul García is the author of the notvel OF (What Place Meant), They Say (West Vine Press) and several lyrical speculative ebooks such as ROBOT: the Waste Land Reimaged. Xe is a diarist and performer living in Albany, NY. Xe has degrees in English and linguistics but has spent xyr adult life doing blue collar work. For a dozen years xe worked in restaurants doing everything from dishes to managing. These days, xe is a maintenance worker in a massive two-story box store. Xe has been doing the graveyard shift for 11 years now so writing is the day job but not the job that's called xyr "real job." In addition, xe posts way too much foolishness on social media and tries to go to lots of conferences around the country preferably by train. Xe is also an editor at Rigorous.