The Gauze Lifting

The evenings come soon these days, daydreams scatter with refused hours. Unrelenting hands pull us thin until it’s hard to find the will to breath. And here comes the cold with its fierce, seasonal slumber; we are forced to dig in and wait out the passage. A crucible of pressure and vacuum filled with near-cliché longing, a handful of obligations become months of denial. Not so patiently you wait within your own divide of consciousness from joy, calling forever to me with your silent and liquid call, wet and warm, where nirvana races cinematic on the inside of eyelids closed.

So quick we are to forgive, pretending we understand when desperation and proximity paint a positive picture. Your mechanisms shock me with their screaming and clutching gears of self-preservation, the gauze lifting from our teenage dream and the hush found in the moonscape of plowed and frozen farm fields between us grows deeper. Be quiet, no one can lie to you if you choose not to hear.