A
few days ago I gave her a call. Not
really sure why. To ask a question I
already knew the answer to served as a good cover. So I asked.
Answer was that prophesied. In
her silence between the beats, I knew.
Her eyes had dulled. The beating
of her heart had stopped… for me. There
is no sign of life on the moon with its desolate pockmarked surface. The guest had overstayed his welcome. A pathetic sentence that fair fit a pathetic
situation. Pathetic.
One
might say but the moon goes through phases.
This is true. Brief moments of a shimmering
full lasts little before shadow begins its creeping cover. A mark that began a transformation towards the
new—absent a messy renaissance. Such is
the moon. Once, I even saw its dark side, that which
she believed forbidden to show. Its
closed off now like a collapsing carnival.
I already knew the answer. I knew
too many answers.
Though
the conversation was brief its lessons were searing. Some soul mates are for a life. A connection unbroken as one merely stands by
the other, they complete them. United,
their vision binds. A nice gig if you
can get it.
Others
however, well these soul mates do not complete… they destroy—totally. In a fire complete the old is burned away
forcing the other to create themselves anew.
In the phoenix of recreation, the one shines even more brilliant than
before. Yet, with the creation of the new,
the old, including the soul mate leaves.
For a time… always a time. A
pathetic sentence that fair fits a pathetic situation. C'est tout. So Icarus spread his wings anew.
