To Prove He Is Sorry
"The transitory nature of relationships...". When I talk to you I speak in these terms and I wait for you to fulfill a philosophy set out by the pain of my past. I start sentences with phrases like that to sound pragmatic between the corny jokes and un-interpretable moments of moody silence. This, my absolution for my future abandonment of you and that life I said I loved.
In the morning as I stare at my ankle and wonder what the brown spots are and if I've contracted some sort of wilderness rash. You tell me that I'm just dirty. I resist the assertion, dirt isn't spotted. I pour water over myself and watch the spots turn to mud and my face turn to a childlike simplicity that speaks in that ignorance that is acceptable because you grin and shrug your shoulders. I've fallen just far enough to forget what that dust is that covers my life really is. Spots and sorrow and my denial of what the shade fails to hide.
I miss everyone from the past and feel impartial to everyone in my future.