April 28th: Recount.

Wet slab of stone steps, I'm planted, like a blossom… and I can feel the moist soil beneath these tattered leather boots. We are disintegrating; the boots and me and him. Hidden under the protruding alcove… hidden from the musk and rain and world and you. But I am waiting… beside these damp stone walls with decayed growth whom offer an existence to rot in chorus with this decrepit stone church. Now, I am no religion, but I am sure that if I tried I'd melt right in with all the spirits of these shattered hearts. Though, I won't dare, for that's not why I am here. I'm waiting for him, because I promised; and I won't go back on my word… because he's torn, and else I'd feel as hopeless as these sugar pink petals bathing the steps and crushing beneath my feet. But I don't hold any guilt since they bloom but only three weeks once a year or less, or so, and it is individual privilege to raze what is already dead… but he's so alive and so not well and I guess I am a murderer for leaving him alone, but I am bounded by stone on three peripheries and here comes the poignant end… and him; and I have to ask for him back.

Written the morning of April 28th, 2008,

while waiting behind the old church for him.