Point of Departure?

Her words fly back in my face again and again, acurate to descibe the most intense of my experiences. . .

"Kiss me with pulled apart open space demolition of propriety. . .Kiss me on the green baize where I play you like a game." (Jeanette Winterson ART AND LIES)

"There is no autobiography. There is only art and lies."--JW

And that makes sense to me. . .The art of my life always at least contains a kernel of truth. My flair for the dramatic catches me unintentionally exaggerating consequences. . .But the truth holds.

I feel as though between time and space we're writing history in golden threads, you and I. The solidity of distance allows to run parallel trains of the journies of our lives. we're more alike than you'd like to admit and more different than I'd like to think. These are the things that get in the way of all of us, our once-tight quadratic circle of confidentiality ripped by your sudden vacancy.

I feel like things ripped apart in the open space where I kissed you and found you lacking. It was an unintentional shift in perspective--does everything trace back to that night?

The shift where my lover began to spiral slowly back up from her deadweight? When she began to look alive again and from which she continually fights.

The leaning closer of our mutual best friend to me? The opening of our histories into each other's deepest pockets. She met me there with hope and cupped hands and I held her back from the edge just as she held me. . .A delicate balance.

But then, aren't we all?

You were uncomfortable and hoping to fade even then. I tried to stop you again and again, needing your lightness as I need their weight, and to balance their brands of lightness against your inconsistently colored darkness. . .But you've packed your trunks and fled.

I don't know how to reach you now, to spread my hand across the distance.

When I try I'm answered by a still fading spiteful shadow that only questions.

Where do I go from here?