Our bodies are pockets where we store the small things, the big things, too. We tuck a love in to the deepest fold, (the endless forever), that’s the love we moved on from. That’s the one that leaves rust. The love with a deep film, a residue, something the color of copper. You feel it in the back of your throat. A dirty penny on your tongue.
We are adaptable creatures. We can assimilate into loss, out of it, too. But we have those deep pockets. We are spiritual, sensual beings having a material, ordinary experience. And here we are, my love, all waiting in line for the endless forever.
That’s our kind of love. The exquisite combustion of a short romance and a long memory. Because our pockets are infinite; longer than any arms can reach, longer than any body could swim back to, longer than this life and the past ones, too.
We had our time, the bitter taste of brevity. The sour slap of eternity- is that space between. Like the blindness of a blackout, like the shock of first light; we feel the separateness, alone but together, and that’s our love- the endless forever.
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