The River Churns Momentarily.

His spirit is a muted sore, and I amble around it – afraid to cause aggravation by coming too close to the parts that have been rubbed raw. At times I feel myself playing limbo under the shallow stick of his practiced standoffishness – there exists a break wall that I can’t see around, that I can’t figure out how to scale. Petulantly I attempt to conjure the words behind his eyes; I am in search of the frightful and timid ones that haven’t yet made their way to verbalization. I lay awake in my bed at night thinking about it, and in the morning I ask myself: when will the break wall be obliterated? The question never finds itself an answer, and at dawn I had a spirit so dead that the people passing on the street took no notice of me.

Shortly: An understanding. Or an ending.