Waiting at the brink of symmetry, I was watching brief apparitions of living narratives escape my miserly attempts in forming these assumptions: that you could be anywhere but the more possibilities I allow, the less I can act upon a decision albeit unjustified (how can there be one when no one knows exactly what the other could be thinking?). This becomes an impossible endeavor. I try to pick things up and realize that I am in fact forming a consolation out of situational predicaments or faltering memories:
Darkness dissolves into her skin, mindfully dancing along the lines on her back while she blinks in and out of her suppositions. Words undulate along the river cutting through her veins, bloody incongruence surmises bloody resolutions where what I had in mind was a festive embrace but I had not the end in sight.
Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth. It isn’t ours but the sum of non entities that changes when I change and sees how I see, subject to the throes of my resistance and injustices, where the truth is merely sensory (your lips on mine, seeing the doors closing in) and everything else, fiction.