We were made with expired breath only—no oxygen, time absent.
Intimacy is destroyed at ground zero.
The incendiary act of detonating it — we did that.
And sand became transformed into glass and glass became rough sandstone tears.
Obliterating, exfoliating the distance between eternity, skin, and air.
In retelling the tale now to a stranger becoming a friend, it’s best to get on with the crying.
He ain’t coming back. I say.
Not in this lifetime.
If he talked his way inside the gates, then maybe the next.
I hope I make it, too.
For a hug. That never had cherished chat. To close the book.
To reclaim pages lost.
Found at last.