Yesterday, he used the word love to define what is between us.
He said that I am going to get knotted up , I won’t like it. I will break it one day and burn everything around me, and fly away.
I wonder at this. Huddled close on that winter night, I wondered at it from afar. It is always far. I am. far.
Is that why I always shy away from the knots? or often compelled by the fieriness of them do I knit them myself, like a puppeteer nimbly tracing wisps of air, pulling to secure a knot. and then light a match to see everything explode, myself burn slowly, only to be found already present somewhere else. Fully covered in wax.
I would like to allow it be peeled away. Not by him, not him at all. Although he believes he has it.
Flowers found/left in between the pages of books
They had fallen in between the sheets from one’s hair. Before that they were on found under the trees that give less shade.
Highways. The sounds heard on them. As one is riding, a huge truck passes by, a high pitched sound far away. Eyes open to glimpse a dim light on the horizon, it warms a villager. the light then, of the loud bus stop, is shocking.
Bluerider, riding in cold winters, in warm summers, always.
Keep riding, my friend.