erosion

small fractured things, like strings so slightly out of tune they throw the whole song off kilter, like the sun vanishing behind a cloud on a february day, sending out only splintered, chilly warmth.

fissures, i mean: fissures appearing in surfaces we think we can trust, barely perceptible, the way that things erode and slide, the precarity of our own flesh and bones.

fractured memories and everythhing slipping together except for some small illuminated keepsakes, moments that might better bear forgetting. (who wants to see again and again a wounded look in his eyes, or long for adventurous nights whose image (&scent, &softness, &newness) only ram home the sort of metallic back-of-the-tongue nostalgia that twines too closely with regret?)

regret only in the sense of constantly mapping, and the unrecoverable joys long past.

needless to say, or maybe need to say, this is all an eruption of sorts; this is all a straining sinewy mass of all the things we don't say all day, all night, always. trapped behind my teeth are all sorts of regrets or maybe just reluctant instinctive niceties, fleeting as air, except air sticks around to remind us, to lay damp and heavy on our forearms and the backs of our necks.

maybe this is is what they meant by redemption.

(this sounds like such despair, but all i mean to write on is how beautiful the sun and the shards of melting ice.)