At the four way intersection on a foot
slope to a mountain range that touched territory of two states, I stood at the
distance we have gone in either direction on many occasions, thinking to
myself, "What will mean most to us?" Will the open air of a frosted
morning in silence outweigh your drive to make noise in gleam headlights past
open windows at midnight?
In the gentle of December, we found a
foothold on the roadside of asphalt without a shoulder, but found a place to
keep on with the scattering of remainders leftover from cracks across the
expanse of terrain down from a faraway peak. The ascent rose on the inside to
conquer what I spent a lifetime laying groundwork for.
When you got on the bus, your first step
from ground level peered down the double sided aisles that reached back to
where your friends were. From the front seat, I noticed you. With the most hope
of intention, I'd bring a cultivated passion for you to the classroom of our
history lesson before lunch hour that same day. After school, it took months
later, but you invited me over in a desolate time when on both sides your mind
changed – or mine did.
It took a year after, this rapid
succession of adolescent motivation found desolation left isolated in the
months leading up to meeting you. Without a hesitation, but sensation, I felt
with eyes closed through troubled times to find you in waiting out the dark
hallways of light that we'd hate further on – or I would.
From the pummel of gross rubble, the
ground broke open in moments from nights left alone. With a display in a
rotation through my left brain to right placement, I lay awake in wait of a
second occasion. From the overlook of a crumbling ridge, I could see valleys
carved open by broken hearts in ice castles, the wind gallops in passes from
each direction until what matters breaks down and crackles.
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