I would like to return, to that time when I was too small to know that the world that we're living in is breaking apart, continuously reforming, never to appear the same. All the time, all around us. The same way that natural disasters remind us our earth is broken without a safe place, you remind me there's no such thing as a solid emotion or a surety in intuition. When I drive past flooded fields, highways, parks, etcetera... the air through my windows numbs my arm cold, wet, but underneath, burning. And I arm my heart for the aria of love.
What flooded first? The river or that deep heat from my eyebrows to my cheek-bones. After the sun (and after reality) can burn it all away it's clean to see that the water was never a sky blue ocean. In fact, the only thing I saw in it in the first place was the sky. It was reflecting something else to want. Just looking in the wrong direction. The enigma in all of this was slipped neatly into the horizon, like the letters I sent you, slipped neatly in envelopes.
I wait all night for your horizon, and even as I do, I know you're not coming. I see heartbreak rise with the setting sun. All of this is nothing new; it's used, recycled and renamed. Same misguided affection, different history, similar feast on illusioned pretenses.
I'm bought and sold.
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