One day (like this) I'll come back as a ghost code of myself, as if from a very dry place. The job will be done and I'll settle on the porch of you with the rich aroma of purple flowers in my hair. Out in the nether will be boxes and jars and buttons of what I used to think and who I used to be trailing like vapor in my long abandoned wake, but I will be whole unto myself.
You might think the lack of it would define me, as the absence defines the substance and night defines the day. I'm not in the mood to argue. This is good enough tonight. The mystery will watch a baseball game with his son, even if the sun has no plan to attend, and if we have nothing but a field of rain's bounty, we'll just have to soothe the child another way. Ice cream usually works. Vanilla will do just fine.
No comments:
Post a Comment