When we met last, Red between us.
Words hung in mid-air, some commited, others abandoned in resignation.
Too tired to argue, too limp to care, twenty years of commitment in the balance
You walked away and only came back once a minute later.
To claim the rest of Red.
What was left then is what is left now.
A reminder of your sweet and rich aftertaste
drowning in the approach of imminent loss.
Residue without body. Shadow without form. Memory without hope.
Your question hangs in the air now as it hung then – what do you want from me?
I look at shimmering Red for answers.
What do I want?
Affirmation of fantasy? Relentless optimism? Infinite second chances?
All of the above. All the time. Without fail, without doubt.
Is that too much to ask?
Red shivers with reproach.
It is too much to give. It is too much to expect.
Faith has limits. Hope has an end.
People are not Red.
The remains of our life are in front of me.
As evening folds into dusk, I examine the entrails.
Love. Lust. Solace.
Memories. Longings. Ghosts.