It was a space reclaimed, that collection of moments had passed and we are better for it. Consequences deliquesce into puddles littered here and there, every motion a magnet, a will, a way, forever pulled into Opposite’s path.
There is no silence as sweet, no better absence. To be without is to have all that is needed, indeed. There is no movement as neat, no lovelier tidiness. To be without doubt is to have found oneself replete, never completed.
It takes but a second for it all to fall into place and just as long for it all to fall apart again. Simple sadnesses are never as simple as they seem—further complexities lace sorrow into resplendency—dawn breaks the day just as easily. We remain shattered and we are better for it, all a consequence, every patter but a sentence unending: not merely a day broken, surely not, it must be a doom delighted as that sunrise bleaches us, nothingness, with a contaminated brightness.
Do we all remember 529 Orchard Drive? It harbors the most sinister of secrets and I pass by with tears streaming from my eyes—running into gutters, draining, I never had a chance to say: ‘Goodbye.’