May isn’t meant for grim tidings. May isn’t made for the cadaver on the slab. It is all spring queens and summer skirts, the turning fancy and sun beckoning the flesh. Instead come these days of dull walls and chiseled inhibitions, the dust covered lampshade, the long ago loves. The witches and the workers and the dancers as they reel. May here with a heart underfoot feel.
This is a year of voided warranties. This is a year of vacant Valentines. No sweet nothings, just the regular kind. No love letters, just cruel invective in a pretty hand. Just another empty placeholder, a number in the long countdown. The light you loosed just the door you held open. The love you shared another expiration date. The world falls down, and you left to hope that life hangs on somehow.
Your world is made of counted connections. Family and friends, shared obligations, wild fascinations and vigorous interests. I’m about half a dozen people and another six beasts out from the event horizon of my ending. My world is sad and shallow, sitting in a curbside, waiting on a bell. It isn’t what I thought I wanted, but want or not, it sure works out that way. A car stalls beneath a streetlight. It sputters, a cleared throat before it turns over. The brake lights flash before it turns a corner. Lost or parted, it’s nothing I will know. The world takes its turns and I sit here like I’m waiting on mine.
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