The waves of our resistance define our choices. The consequences of our actions are unparalleled. We drift, spiral, vanish, beyond the means of reason. I don't truly like this; I don't like letting go, going slow, pushing my thoughts of you aside. If you just didn't have that silly smile, the one where I pull you in, gravitate, and run my fingers through your hair. Your dark, dark, cold hair.
It's our roots. We stem from issues unresolved, complications, triangulations, pieces of our hearts spinning by day, thriving at night. Talking through issues, skipping work, playing by ear, remember? Calling you on the phone talking until the sky begins to open, with warm shafts of light press down upon us. Your hand that was in mine. These are the days I live for.
Unequal, inconsequential, insatiable, our appetite grows. It's hard to be the better man, when you keep on dying. Let the pale, still, earth glow and let your eyes open to this new season. It is now just a period of life, where we let go of our strife, our delights, moving for the sake of motion. It's such a dangerous business to keep your thick, desolate door open when these winds blow in; who knows what will push through to you. Never give up.
I say this in honesty, repentance, and inspiration. You were the reason for my innovation, in and out. The waves lap against the house, our shaky foundations built on mud. It's hard to be intertwined when the bricks you build with are made of sand, right? Like a lock in a door, a room to a hallway, wheels to a car, pillow to a bed, I still embrace you. Keep your pretty head up and never let go. This is our season.
