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What are you waiting for?
It wasn't raining the day you left.
But I felt the cold rush of gathering clouds and rumbling thunder.
You had been gone already for weeks.
It was somewhere inside.
Somewhere relieved.
Somewhere hurt.
I can't remember the way you dressed
or the things you said to me
But I do remember lifting your bags into a stranger's truck
and wishing I had burned them on the lawn
along with your infidelic heart.
Patience was the answer.
And some vengeful drinking.
It'd all come out in the wash.
Just give it time, and space.
When I wake now, its to an old dawn, a familiar haze.
Dusty bookshelves, rattling motors.
Embarassing wallpaper.
Shedding, tigerstriped dog, and a dryness
a hungry longing to the west.
Hope,
easing anger.
Injured, not broken.
Hurt, not dead.
Numb, not amputated.
I can't speak for the future, or collapsing collosal catastrophes heralding old Sun Gods.
Or the watchful wardens of doubt and pestilent naysaying.
I can't speak for the dull, sunken ache in my chest.
What I know is ruin.
Ruin, and the defiance to breach the shattered rubble
in desperate triumph.
