morphine and vicodin create a haze, nothing more
no relief in sight for my serious injuries, the ones to my heart and soul I sit waiting for a visit that I know will not come. I take inventory of this world where I wait. Sounds of motion in a hallway that I cannot see, as the world moves beyond comedies like my life. I feel the fear mixed with relief in others, as some find salvation or further damnation. wonder where my soul sits on the scale. They arrive meek, mild, with a touch of embarrassment, heads bowed, knowing the disappointment they bring. could they talk, they could say it no better. Nothing says, "I'm done with you," quite like carnations from her. sitting on the bridge, dangling toes in the creek
the bridge is cool, the only thing that is on this impossibly warm day she's asking me questions about politics, pollution and possibilities and the day is just warm enough to loosen my tongue. I am spilling out my heart one pearl at a time on a well worn lifeline, not realizing just what I am saying and what the impact might be. something in the wind whispers for me to be still and in the silence I catch a glimpse of her wide, wondering eyes. She's asked me what I mean, and now is waiting for my reply. I have no idea, and to myself I think, sometimes the moment is bigger than the messenger. That though, won't do for an explanation of myself and what it all means, so I exhale and prepare a truncated soliloquy that might serve as a moment's distraction. |
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