reypulque

She went away, leaving with the autumn tide and the guardian moon. It was a leaving that left me longing for a phase, a changing of places that would wind up all the same. The intermittent re-enforcement common to all romantic thought. Then longing grows longer, widens the wander until even the most magical of daily notions snaps. Soon enough every sentence I hung on her was tensed past. Gone was the only word that mingled with her name in any fresh moment.

It is an ordinary story, one that the splintering sense loves to talk upon. Seasons with their give and take, time with its tumbling gear work, the day and night and day again of this withering grind. All of it blessed by this fabled sadness, the spilt milk, the crumbled cookies. Was once but will not be again is the refrain that rides us to our graves. Half of life is learning to wake without.

What breaks us is this telling, the learning of conventions that makes us, after so many happily burned bridges, forgetting ever knowing how to swim. Story begets story begets the form that we allow of a story at all. Telling what we know can be told, we miss the tiny stories bursting into bloom all around. Her story was never in the leaving, that was only me. Her story is where ever she needed to be. The tale belongs to everyone: we only share part of the words.