The Wait

There is a peculiar cruelty in memory,

on how it preserves.

Only to sharpen the cold that follows.

Faces fade. Voices fracture.

What remain ache;

"The perfect, undying and merciless."

We learn early.

How to carry sorrow.

How to smile.

With Fractures hidden.

Beneath the hide.

Through sleepless nights.

(In) An endless corridor.

Still. We wait;

Not for the joy, or meaning.

but for the quiet certainty

at the end of all things; ceasing.

It waits.

In the slow pulse of aging hands.

In the space between what we've planned

We pretend not to see it.

Dress our days in purpose.

Fill the silence with entertainment.

Hiding beneath the surface.

Yet, beneath it all.

(we are listening)

for the inevitable call.

...and, when it comes.

it wont matter if we are ready.

it wont matter what we loved.

it will not release the weight that we chose to carry.

Each inhale,

a fragile struggle of defiance.

Each exhale,

a quiet surrender.