, ,

The last time I saw you,
we were happy.

The rest of our story
was coursed through
a great distance.
The fights.
The tears.
The goodbyes.
The futile trying again.
And again.
The goodbyes.
Through pings and pixels.
Ones and zeros.

All my memories
of the times we touched
had been untouched
by the bad parts.

And so I hold on to a small page
that had been full
of color and music
and layers of splendid,
as if it were enough
to stand up to the rest
of the saga of destruction,
of undoing,
spanning many volumes,
wasting many years.

Closure is a contortion of a flame,
once having kindled a devotion
to a premise, bending
the farthest ends of its reaches
inward, beyond pain
and the natural flow of feeling,
to touch the closest thing ever held,
past the burning, past
the tantalizing brightness obscuring
the collapse of that premise,

and teach it to move.

Outside of the blue soul.
Towards the smooth,
healing mercy of night.

“Edyta” by photographer Rafał Borowski


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