Gone Fishing

In the pavement shimmering with speed. In the trees that parted as I came near. An escape. Away from everything.

A process of becoming chronic. Incurable. Wanting to be.

The air was quilted with frost. Stitched precisely into every pocket of breath. Thick and paralyzing. The night was panting softly. While our hamburgers cooked. A wounded animal trembling amongst the taller weeds. While our fries tangoed in their hot, yellow bath.

I said stupid things. Speaking out loud the conversations that are usually reserved for my head. I watched myself and him. The whole restaurant. Flopping as fish on a boat's deck in a futile exercise of self-preservation.

When you're there in it you don't know you're dying.

It's the watching that reveals where we really are.