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It can all be contained in a high-energy moment,
It can all be contained in a high-energy moment, when you are so tired
and nothing surrounds you but all the things that you are tired about,
and you feel like screaming, and you would, too, if you weren’t so tired
of life. All it takes is for two people to occupy
of life. All it takes is for two people to occupy that lonely place where
the center of everything that hurts is just beyond your reach. And you
just turn to each other seeing in their weary hands mirroring your own
a kind of
a kind of rescue, a kind of absolution for all the things you know you
deserve but are unable, now, to give yourself, on account of, you don’t
even know for sure, whether the number of times you failed or the
number of times your fear of failure paralyzed you. And your twin
suffering in the
suffering in the inertia of exhaustion makes you invisible, almost. And
the awareness that he can’t save you because he can’t even save himself
makes it even more guiltless to put your life in his hands. If you fall,
no one is responsible. You
no one is responsible. You can’t break when you weren’t whole to begin
with. And I know
with. And I know there are better places than here. I know I should be
looking for sunlight to scrub off my grimy jadedness. And we both know
it takes more than my dry husk of a heart to make any difference in this
part of your life. But for one stanza
part of your life. But for one stanza in the Psalms of all that is possible,
we find ourselves in the position to comfort each other. How can I turn
you away? When tending to your needs momentarily lets me forget my
own? There is, in the heart,
own? There is, in the heart, after forcing it to believe in the glamor of
of the gray as to make it easier to accept the importance of its existence,
after coercing it at gunpoint to concede that
after coercing it at gunpoint to concede that such adult things as sexy,
silly and dangerous are neither black nor white so as to push it to live
on that edge,
on that edge, always an audible sigh of relief after shamefully, selfishly,
it steps back from the precipice to the realm of safety. Inside the lines we
can let our mangled dreams recuperate. Let the
can let our mangled dreams recuperate. Let the fools, such as you and I
once were, rush into old age by repeatedly choosing to act young. We’ve
done our share. We can
done our share. We can make for love votive offerings of the debris all our
past good intentions have been reduced into. You’re with me now, for the
duration of our irreproachable handicap, in this paper-thin fortress of the
salvation we’ve improvised. Who’s to say we wasted our time.
.

loversonpavement
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untitled photo from the image bookmarking site, WeHeartIt
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