I could just walk away now.

It's all over anyways.

Wound down. Patience. I've been through this long enough.

To channel the end of something...but ignore the final messaging.

Ugh. That's rough.

Dissonant. Unpleasant. Scraping mud off my shoes but it just doesn't ever come off.

It's a mess of course. A royal one. And who am I to judge timelines perhaps written long ago, in my line. Wasn't it always meant to turn out rough? Couldn't I have chosen something simpler? I wonder...

My hands tucked underneith me, legs swinging on the stool. Head bowed in the sunlight. I could. Just walk.

But there's tears now. And they're warm and too familar. Gliding elegently down my face. Romantic. Or so the story is telling me. From the recesses and the depths of addicted mind cellular remembering. He's fine.

It must be my problems, haunting everything.

And, in the moment, my heart wants something. To fight about. To ache for. It is seeking again. Looking. For a type of food it grew up believing must be true, nourishing.

Is it me? Is it my line that's ruining the crumbs I feed and get fed on?

For now I breathe.

And reckon in the light. Tears dropping from the tip of my nose. I feel numb. But these tears are cold.