In this moment of passing discomfort
Like crumbs in the bed that you feel digging into your fingernails as you grasp the sheets
In a rapture of communion between two bodies
Hot and perspiring until one wilts in a sigh
Or perhaps, a whisper of exaltation.
Is it wrong to feel this way?
To be entirely too close to either side of the proper and correct and appropriate
Side of the agreement?
Or is it just that it's easier to write about the good times and even the bad?
No one writes about the in between — about the holes that form out of a consummation of necessity.
And so the beginnings and endings of things become more significant on a timeline
Where they would otherwise go unseen
Where they would die in an icy ditch of time moving too quickly
On a train that's moving so fast that the grass growing in between the tracks
Gets ignited by the speed.
Like a bright burning candle you cannot put out
Until it dies on it's own in an oxygen deprived pocket of deep vehement suppression.
In time, the grass will grow back
To the way it once was.
A slow howling locomotive groan coming to a stop which seems like will never be complete—
Will stop.
And the unmitigated traversing excitement of consciously electric longing—
Will finally quit.
But it's more than that isn't it?
Isn't it always?
