A line allows progress. A circle does not.

Ponytail gray and "Let's stay together"
she shuts the door
and the proximity of his blood surrounds
he hangs in the wood panels
and the grainy green strands of her daughter's eyes

Judgment was the last thing you were looking for when you poured the intensity of your days into the ears of someone you used to love when you were young. Sun yellow surrounds her face in your memory. The day you were canning peaches in the kitchen. "You'll be extraordinary, won't you?" she asks. You swallowed it into you. A burning beam of hope and pride. It's only now you think maybe she was pleading. Now that the sun yellow is stripped away and you see her bristle with disappointment. The hairs of her arms jutting up like crooked gravestones. This way and that way. You were just trying to be honest. If you tell the truth, everything will be ok, right? If you tell the truth you're clarified. Justified. Identified. But she can't even place you, let alone identify you. Something in her eyes switched off, and now you know she's looking at a stranger. So are you.


No one understands what you have to do now. Not even her. You're convinced that you're the only one who's ever felt the debilitating gaping. Aching. Needing. But you're not. That's something else you have to recognize someday. That you aren't the only one. If you could use the words to make them understand, you would. You know that words have moved nations. United, alienated, saved, killed, seduced, defamed, executed. You live your life by the power of words.

But this precise relationship, that you're sure has repeated itself innumerable times throughout history (Petrarch/Laura, and fuck, you're Petrarch aren't you?), is about the irrelevance of words. People feel the way they feel. And no matter what you write, or say, or to whom you address it, words are drops of rain splattering against the window. They're heard, acknowledged, and promptly forgotten. You should put away your meter. The way you've manipulated language to fit the mold of your specific gaping ache.

You smile as she watches you spiraling downward into an abyss of the unconventional. It's a sad smile, of course, since her eyes are empty, judging, disappointed. But you don't think you're falling, do you? This is intentional. You won't make make a gradual descent into a life you never meant. You've chosen your path. So, it's never ending. Circular. But that's your business. You've never really been able to resist circular motion.