The Slow Blade

I remember things. It’s hard to chase all these memories from my head. They come back at me, deep in the water of regret and overshadowed by a poisoned context. The narrative is utterly lost, and these disjointed fragments are all that is left of my love for her.

In the storm of thoughts, her face is like lightning, and my yearning the thunder. I often wonder about where she is, or what her world is like now that it is distinct from mine. Has she moved beyond that ache? Does she regret? There is only brief contact, when I am in possession of something she needs. I provide, and she vanishes back into the darkness.

Then there are those fantastic moments where we were so close, so deep. Where I could feel every part of her, and breathing in nothing but the rush of that passion. I wonder sometimes if it will ever be like that again. But it’s clearly not a priority to restore the fire to my life. That heat is both amazing and dangerous. The flame consumes all in its path.

I yearn in old memories. Days that have faded from relevance and reason. The time when they filled me is quiet, dormant. The fire has been replaced by the steady heat of embers. I’ve found I don’t need to burn to survive, but nothing can replace the intoxication of those days. A past that was just as much fun as it was recklessly destructive. It pains me to see the compromises I made, the mistakes and misguided actions. I did so many stupid things.

I’m clearly not fully healed. I often go back on my memories and look. I find a lot of pain, and passion, and insanity. I see my mind being twisted and pulled in vastly different directions. My own prerogatives lost, smothered, stuffed and forgotten. It has been a truly trying road I’ve traveled. But I have gained knowledge just as I have lost love. I am of two distinct minds, one of regret and one of advancement, and compromise is not inevitable but needed.

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