by Jacqueline Frasca
It was printed in the closed expression
on his face, too plainly printed to mistake;
he needed me. He knew I was the least
trustworthy person he had ever exchanged
mischievous glances with - I had even
told him, but there was no other excuse
for the remoteness in his voice; he wanted
me around. Every small fracture of existence
except the smile in his eyes that would
alight when I reversed my previous
indignity lost their meaning to me.
He told me, “You know, when you love something
it loves you back in whatever way it
has to love.” – I disagreed with him.
Every ounce of everything I knew told
me differently - but like everything else
about him, all his thoughts and beliefs, it
should have been true. I could not argue.
I suddenly knew nothing at all.
He let me run from it all. The sound of
my escape was pitched off short in the vast,
immobile dawn, as though there was no room
amid so many glittering sights for
my sound to intrude. But they pulled me back
in, as the snow pulled me back toward this mess.
For hours, and sometimes for days, I felt
the expanse, without realization,
of the private explanation of the world.
I ceased to have any real sense of it.
And this alone was liberation we
had torn from the grey encroachments,
an escape we had concocted - a separate peace.
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