It only takes one
hesitant step.
A simple movement.
I've decided.
I am "me."
Beyond this point,
"We" no longer exist.
And I am alone.
And you aren't following.
How does it feel to
dissolve into absence,
After years of re-membering
our ways to fit the gaps?
Memory is devoured by time.
And momentary edges remind us of what we've lost.
Music endures.
Sometime we tell stories.
For the past holds fondness for ignorance:
(I miss you, terribly.)
"It was always better then."
"This is our song!"
Although stretched taught,
Strings do not break away.
For it is in returning,
That leaving meant something.
A lone guitar wails for a moment,
have I already lost you?
Caressed by callused fingers,
We are used to playing this game of departure and return:
Hush, I am here.
Strings merge and separate
into a melody, a duet breaks a century of silence.
[There is constant space between us.
There has always been space between us.]
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