Beyond the Sunset

When she said I love you it seemed like the first time I had heard her voice rattle it out, it was like a sad child learning for the first time that such words carry emotional backswings, but then again, she has known this for a lifetime, and only in the cool breath of an air conditioned nightmare can the reality of a death with unheld hands send spiders across her shadow. Her voice of innocence is so wretched and empathetic on me because it is the innocence of complacency, the numb acceptance of knotted fingers beyond the sunset where the innocence of ultimate knowledge is traced heavier than a stone, the brain dies, rots, runs. Dark and this code of the grave, sunk in the soil, danced across every elemental atom, suddenly reminds us of love at the door of the crypt, the heavy last time we dream, the forcefulness with which we lay down our heads, the crushing brilliant realization that the void solves all of our trespasses and that we can make amends clumsily because we have no root. And who are we apologizing to, professing our love to? they are written of the same dirt as us.



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