Ashleigh delivered me some platitude sincerely about not necessarily being better off without Patrick but deserving something better than grinding my face into a brick wall, not finding a fleshen one, and still grinding it.
Eventually any leftover happenstance looses it's flavor, fades into white threads holding the most distant corner together. Dust settles. There is a blurry, furred hatching of this happenstance; a somnambulist serendipity that's stopped paying attention to the brisk touch (shiver-inducing by thought) and focused instead on the objects in his house. One can only be killed in poetry so often.
And this, too implies a sequence. 1. Falling in love from a distance, 2. Shortening that distance, 3. Sublimating that distance and looking back with as much as looking forward did.
