the return

white white white aalike
aaa a boundary in death advancing
that is our life, aa that's love,
aaaa line upon line
breaking in radiance, so soft-so dim
aaa ly glaring...

you turn, again. but what if you find yourself not quite your old self, looking slightly askew at what was deeply familiar? into darkened mirrors for what is lost. the silence between your words noted, held against you. there is no betrayal like the betrayal of one's voice. how many more times will you look at your watch, the hands, like your soul, moving in opposite directions, in a widening angle: time of arrival; time of departure.

time, time is the space between me and you, just between us. solace of winter sun. all that is human is frail. solstice, the north that runs through our blood, runs through us, like magnetic grey, tugging at our sleeves. retrace your steps to find oneself, oneself. no more. none the less.

{I would like to add: this post is not, for the most part, about God or cinnamon rolls}