there are angles. paper thin. like the narrow distance that separates love and anguish.
the years went by. as years tend to do. immense. miniscule.
we let the flesh heal. as survival insists. imagining that those scars can spread to places in ourselves where healing has no dominion.
alone shouted. pounded and pulled. on that thin curtain we keep between rage and surrender. as if one could supercede the other.
i ran. i crawled. i limped. any way at all that i could move. it took years, but i found solace in the numbness.
yet.
in only moments.
it was all undone.
a magnificent collision ofl fire and snow. and a long winter approaching.