the story that we started

What thorns there were bit at the flesh there was. What stones there were found their way under heel and toe. The ache flowed from tendon to muscle, anchoring flesh to bone and this wailing to the world. The fields overgrown, the tall grass gone to seed. The frenzied music of feeding birds, their wings rending the wind like paper. The days sailed by, slipping through our fingers. Life slithered on, sliding out of reach.

Rainy nights and tiny rooms, thunder humming in the cheap window glass. Candlelight casting shadows against the ceiling and the walls. The nights clung, the days cantered along. Tomorrow seemed so bright and fertile and a thousand years away, a tomorrow that seemed as if it would never come. For awhile, it never did.

Words tangle as we spit them out, greasy syllables dribbled from oily tongues. The story that we started with outgrows us, changing stripe and feather. No-one says anything for a very long time, and suddenly everyone is talking. Silence slides by, and everything is different except for all the things. The story moves on, leaving some and leading others. The story moves on, without waiting for the words.