You once told me that we are cut from the same cloth…
which may or not be true. More than likely, yes. It sounds lovely…poetic to a fault.
Like salt is poured into a wound…or poison in the veins, The truth remains constant,
exposing flaws and secret stains. The past reigns mighty in your world the
same as it does in mine…there are shades of grey, too many to count, and
there’s always black to fall back on. We both lack the will to change, to get
beyond ourselves….to line our ducks up in a row and not knock them off the
shelf. Is there beauty in self-destruction? I think not. Probably the one thing
that is keeping us apart. On second thought, distance is important as well.
It’s hard to tell.

But there is also light inside you, brilliance in milliseconds, moments that
inspire. Love is there; I sense it. Never out in the open, though, a candle
behind a veil. We may want to share something, but it is a physical manifestation…a perfect imitation. Love that lingers on the outskirts of what could be.
It’s so much bigger than fabric, wouldn’t you agree? Hiding inside metaphors
is easy. Condensing down relationships to fit inside a page. Makes failure so
much easier to explain, giving loss a name.

We have existed on a plane of what I thought was understanding. Holding
hands and exchanging a form of true emotions. Kisses like keys to passages
of need. Lust we both adore. You once told me that if you look at the moon
when it’s full, it’s actually a reverse image of the Earth. For what it’s worth,
I never questioned anything you said. Kept those questions in my head and
pondered through my workday. But like the moon, I felt distant when you
were away, almost like I needed your light to be noticed. Why is it, in retrospect,
we realize that we are our own sun?

Yes, there is light in both our worlds, temptations that we play with. Feelings stored in boxes like so many boring toys. But back to black and cloth, we cut, the warp and woof and hidden proof we bury in the folds. Stories are told like pattern pieces scattered on the floor. Stepping back, they look much different, like letters in our names…back even further and it’s just a convenient blur. The cloth you say is one the same.

I must say that, looking back, there’s more to see than all we lack. Maybe this is why you’re scared of
me, and I’m unsure of you. This one thing’s true, we can’t undo the damage
done, the misery we trade for fun. There is no contrast in this mischiavous design that we dare
to admit, and the lines of indifference remain as lovely stains for all to see.

TM DiSarro
©2024 TM DiSarro / MindScapes Publishing

From: POKING HOLES IN THE DARKNESS