Going these distances.

You walk right past me, like life, like the wind blowing against me, slowing me down without offering me fresh oxygen. All I hear is footsteps, all I see is stories floating by, of what could have been if only I’d pushed the right buttons – if only I’d pushed any button at all. When I pretend the world is a piano, when I pretend I know how to use a piano, when I pretend greatness, and you only brush my shoulder, leaving me a shuddering mess, frozen by your cold heart. And I’m an idiot for going these distances. I’m an idiot for thinking I should think at all. I’m a fool for believing there’s a rhythm to life, to try to write it down, when all the world does is kill me. Slowly. When all I am is blood not yet bleeding. The field is so empty during the night, when even the most hungry of raptors have turned in, and I’m left alone, with God above and past below, with an empty beer bottle in my hand, with a scarf to keep me warm and a winter to make sure it won’t succeed. I’m bringing this old body home, and I’m laying it to rest. If only for the night.

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