It’s the cards stuck in the spokes, these dead end grays, these almost blues. Breaking moons and straying stars, the weighing of suits, the harrying of the deck. Put in a word for prophecy, waste your breath in prayer. You can’t help but take a peek, giddy for a glimpse. You can’t help but make a wish, seeing that set to star.
It’s not as if it wasn’t kindness. It’s not as if it wasn’t love. A picture taken in an awkward garden. A painting striped with drying tears. All the steps out of line were mine.
We never know how long we have. We never know how fast we’ll fade. Here I was grasping at straws when I should have been digging graves. All the dead we carry, all the dying that we are. All the wishes for this life that never was, the dreams aimed for before the mark was missed. We can see how we diminish, shrinking from the witness of the world. How long we flicker until only memory remains. How a home is slowly overgrown, then empties out entirely.
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