One day, I will wake up without you next to me. One day, I won't get to feel your warmth. I won't be able to hear your breath. I won't have anyone to hold me when I am afraid. I won't have anyone to tell me that I'll be okay. I want to be happy, and to focus on what's happening right now. But no matter how much I try, I can't manage to let go of these fears. The fear that one day, you won't come home. One day, you won't be able to kiss me. One day, I'll be all alone.

I don't think I'd really be alive if I ever lost you.

the space between us slowly dwindled as the night went on

the liquor had made our face hot and melted our bodies together quite often

when you were farther gone than me and still stripped your bed and made it new

but i slept next to you on the floor

i did not mind the subtle hum of your snoring

for it felt like it was the soundtrack to when i was built in the cosmos

i did not mind when the alarm woke us up for it was a sobering reminder we were together

i did not mind the coldness of the air in your dorm for i was wrapped in your blanket and your nearby warmth radiated off of you

i did not mind holding those nights in my heart so close even if they were a distant memory to you

Stupidity used to be obvious. The guy who stuck a fork in a light socket. The neighbor who invested his life savings in a "sure thing" because some guy at a bar told him about it. There was a clarity to it. A cause and effect. Now, stupidity is slippery. It wears a suit. It has a verified account. It speaks in the right buzzwords, retweets the right opinions, and knows just enough to be dangerous.

It’s not that people are getting dumber; it’s that the world makes it easier than ever to feel smart while knowing nothing. We have access to infinite information but no time to process it. We consume headlines, not articles. Hot takes, not analysis. We mistake speed for accuracy, volume for truth, confidence for competence. The guy who reads one Wikipedia page and suddenly has strong opinions on international policy isn’t an outlier—he’s the blueprint.

This isn’t entirely our fault. The system is built to keep us in a permanent state of mild ignorance. Every app, every platform, every news cycle is designed to keep us scrolling, clicking, reacting. Outrage is easier than understanding. Certainty is more marketable than doubt. And so we float through the world, forming half-baked opinions on things we barely understand, mistaking engagement for insight, collecting facts like trinkets rather than using them to build anything meaningful.

The worst part? It feels like thinking. It feels like participating. You read, you react, you post. You feel a brief rush of righteousness, of being on the right side of something. But real thinking is slow. It’s uncomfortable. It requires sitting with doubt, resisting the urge to immediately categorize everything as right or wrong, good or bad, my team or their team. It means accepting that most issues are complicated, that most people aren’t villains, and that sometimes, the correct answer is “I don’t know.”

But who has time for that? Modern life moves at the speed of distraction. If you’re not reacting, you’re falling behind. If you’re not constantly reaffirming your identity—political, moral, cultural—who even are you? The internet has turned beliefs into brands, and once you’ve invested in one, changing your mind feels like bad marketing.

So we stay where we are. We mistake familiarity for truth. We listen to the voices that make us feel smart, that confirm what we already believe. We build our little worlds out of opinions that were handed to us, convinced we arrived at them on our own. And maybe that’s the worst kind of stupidity—the kind that doesn’t know it’s stupid. The kind that would rather be wrong forever than admit it was ever fooled.

But there’s another option. You can slow down. You can resist the pull of easy outrage, easy certainty, easy tribalism. You can step outside your bubble and let your brain do what it was meant to do: think, question, wonder. Not for clout, not to win an argument, not to prove anything—just because it’s the only way to stay human in a world that would rather you weren’t.

I still don’t know how I feel about leaving my dad alone…

“He’ll be fine, Gareth,” Olban said. “Well, he’s bound to get his ass kicked by Coban, but other than that, no need to worry. We can leave him alone for a day or two while we scout the area.”

I know, I know… It’s just… I just got him back, y’know? I don’t want…

Gareth didn’t need to finish his sentence. Olban and Eloise could tell what he was trying to say. Communication had gotten easier since they were blessed by the Fae, if it could be called a blessing. Eloise no longer needed to translate; instead, the three of them could communicate internally as much as they needed to.

Olban is right, Gareth. Brian will be fine. He’s got a village full of warriors to back him up.

“Well, full of warriors might be an exaggeration.”

Eloise wondered if she could materialize just to give Olban a death stare.

Not helpful.

“Ah. Right,” Olban said, seemingly unfazed. “Well, like I said, he’ll be fine. We’re the ones going out to see the status of the Nameless One’s newly untethered minions. If anything, you should be more worried about us.”

At his words, someone on the path turned to him with a look that was equal parts confusion and disgust.

Uh, Olban? Might want to keep your voice down.

Olban looked around and seemed to notice for the first time that the path was far from deserted, and the people on it seemed less than hospitable.

“That’s odd…” he said. “We haven’t gone far from Little Dafford. Usually people aren’t this…”

Judgy? Eloise supplied.

“Well, yes, but… Let me put it this way. In all my time here, I’ve never seen someone look down on me for talking to myself. I know in your worlds, there is a certain… stigma, but here? Not so much. No, there must be some other reason… but why would they be so…”

Olban silenced himself, evidently lost in thought, so deeply that even Eloise and Gareth couldn’t hear.

Maybe we’re walking in the wrong direction, Eloise said. She’d noticed that, although the street was busy, every single person was headed out, not in.

Olban stopped for a moment. One woman made an arch around him as she continued on her way, like she was worried she’d catch some kind of disease.

He shrugged.

“Eh, probably nothing.” But his voice shook as he spoke.

He was turning to continue on his way when a hand clasped his shoulder. Olban spun on his heels, instinctively assuming a defensive stance.

The person who’d placed a hand on his shoulder didn’t seem threatened.

“Relax, lad. I am no enemy. Merely wondering why you’re wandering this path. What brings you to this part of town? I know you’re not locals.” Their voice was deep and gruff.

Olban was silent for a moment, considering.

“We’re… just passing through.”

“Hmph. Well, take it from me, you might want to ‘pass through’ somewhere else. Draklis Eorldom is rather… tumultuous at the moment.”

“‘Tumultuous?’ Tumultuous how?”

“Sensitive matter, lad. Forgive me if I’m not particularly… forthcoming. Speaking of forthcoming, I forgot an introduction. The name’s Feargna. You?”

Olban hesitated before giving his real name.

Olban. Ask if Feargna has seen any monsters, Eloise urged. Maybe that’s why everyone is running away.

“Pardon the question, Feargna, but the ‘sensitive matter’ you mentioned wouldn’t happen to be… a monster, would it?”

Feargna’s face grew suspicious.

“And why d’you want to know?”

I knew it, Eloise said.

“Feargna, we… well. Firstly, do you know what a Nexus is?”

“I’d be a fool not to. Most round here do.” Her face darkened. “But there’ve been some bad experiences with ’em around here. Dunno if it’s something about Draklis or what, but… they usually lose their minds pretty young.”

“Lose their minds?” Olban said. “I don’t think I’ve heard of anything like that happening anywhere.”

“Aye, but it happens here. Locals have started believing, after the month we’ve had, that the land we’d built on is cursed. That’s why we’ve been packin’ up and going. But hey, you never did explain yourself. How did you know about a monster? What have you heard?”

“It’s… complicated. The short version is, I… am a Nexus. There are two others in my head right now, Eloise and Gareth. They come from a different world. Eloise… attracted the attention of a bitter god, and we sort of had to talk him out of destroying the universe. But the good news is, he’s really turned himself around. Unfortunately, his former minions… haven’t gotten the memo.”

Feargna stared at Olban like he’d just grown a fourth head. She blinked a few times, then shook her head like she was already grieving for her lost freedom.

“If what you say is true, then I suppose I’ll have to take you to King Scintius. I’m not sure if you’re related to our current problem, but… well, I’ll let the king figure out what to do. It’s his job, anyway.”

Olban let out a barely audible sigh of relief.

“Thanks, Feargna.”

“I’m not so sure you should be thanking me yet, lad. Draklis is… not the paradise it used to be. Hasn’t been for a while now.”

I’m just glad she didn’t bash our skulls in with that axe of hers, Gareth said. I mean, look at that thing. It’s bloody massive.

Olban hadn’t even processed her axe. It was slung over Feargna’s shoulder, and each of the twin blades was nearly the size of her skull. It was definitely formidable, and intricately crafted with engraved details. It was almost like the scenes on a greek vase, except more lethal.

If it was possible for Eloise to gulp without a body, she did.

That’s… a very big axe, she said.

Understatement of the century, Gareth retorted.

“Feargna, what were you saying about Nexus events in Draklis?”

“Hmph. Not really something I’m inclined to brag about. We ain’t proud of it. But I can tell ya it ain’t new. Been happening long before the dragon flipped his lid, long before you pissed off a god.”

“I see…” Olban seemed lost in thought.

What is it, Olban? Gareth asked. Have you heard of something like this happening?

“No, I haven’t, but I have a theory. Now shh. I need to ask more questions,” Olban hissed, quietly enough to avoid Feargna’s scrutiny.

I’m not sure she’s open to answering more questions, Eloise said. She seems… sad. Or maybe angry. Or both. Plus, she’s got that axe. I’d avoid pissing her off.

“I can handle it, Eloise. Trust me.”

Eloise was silent.

“Feargna, the Nexus events… what happened?”

“Nothin’ happened. It’s been happening, for my whole life at least. As far as I know it’s always been here. No triggering event in history that we know of— or at least that anyone ever talks about. It’s like the land itself just… rebels against it.”

“And… the people who…”

“I toldja. They go crazy. Say, what part of ‘don’t wanna talk’ do you not understand?”

Olban raised his hands in surrender.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m not trying to cause offense, I promise. I’m just trying to… understand. Nexus events are rare, and Nexus events going wrong is… even rarer. To happen on a societal level…”

“My brother,” Feargna blurted. “He was, uh, a Nexus. His name was Fergus.”

Oh, no… Eloise said, her voice tinged with empathy.

No wonder she didn’t want to talk about it, Gareth said.

“When I say ‘went crazy,’ that’s exactly what I mean. At first it was just the normal stuff— talking to himself. Staring off into space, like he was somewhere else. But it got… darker. Less ‘hi, how are you’ and more like… scared. Like they were asking him to do things. Terrible things. He’d be up all night, crying and whispering to himself. He didn’t want to do it. Even my parents, I… I don’t think they understand. How desperate he was. How much he wanted to stop…” She paused, blinking away tears. “He’s… gone now. Vacant, I guess you could say.”

“And… whoever shared his body?” Olban asked, tentatively. He could guess about the ending of Feargna’s brother.

Feargna’s face grew stony.

“Dunno. Whoever it was, it’s gone now, with the rest of him. I certainly never heard or saw anything, and… well. That’s all I’ll say.” Olban noticed a flash of anxiety cross her face for a moment, and wondered briefly what she was still hiding. He was about to ask another question when a faint vibration stirred the ground beneath their feet, sending up a cloud of dust and making the pebbles jump like angry crickets.

“Ah, shit. Arm yourself, Olban.” Feargna unslung her axe from her shoulder. “I get the feeling we won’t be getting a warm welcome… well, unless you count getting slow-cooked by dragon fire as warm.”

It was a bright but cold day in January. The sun shone but gave no warmth. An icy chill tore through my bones. I wrapped my coat more tightly around me. I could not wait to get home.

The street was empty save for a middle-aged, short, stout woman in front of me. She was wearing a duffel coat and ankle-length boots. On her legs were black leggings, looking almost like tights. She was walking slowly, as if immune to the biting wind.

She removed her handbag from her shoulder and opened up a wallet. Some coins fell out and a small, black-and-white photo, which blew in my direction. I gathered the coins but there was something intriguing about the photo: it was of a young man who looked exactly like my late father and I did not know this woman from Adam.

"Excuse me, madam,"I said, as I handed over the coins, but hung on to the photo. "This photo. It looks just like my late father."

She looked at me closely. I saw a muscle move in her cheek. She grabbed the photo from me and turned it around. On the back was a date in black ink: "Michael. October1965."

My father had died in September 1980. It was now January 1985. I was born in May 1966. The woman glared and snatched the photo back. She did not even thank me for returning her coins.

I began following her, my footsteps hardly making a noise. Her reaction showed that she had something to hide. Anyone else would have thanked me for having returned them their money and would not have been annoyed at me having accidentally picked up a photo.

At one stage, she turned around.

"Are you following me?"

I crossed the road and looked ahead, pretending to be interested in the view of the tower block ahead of me, but I kept looking at her out of the corner of her eye. She turned right into another street and I crossed the road, careful to leave a respectable distance between us. I did not want to frighten her but there was something strange about this. Had I not seen her in the street that day and picked up the coins that she had accidentally dropped from her wallet, I would never have seen that photo of that man resembling my late father and all would have been fine in my world.

I stood on the opposite pavement and watched her enter a terraced house. I waited for five minutes, then walked up to it. Heart thumping in my chest, I rang the bell. Some hasty footsteps followed and the door was opened by that same woman.

"You again!" she said and began closing the door. "Leave me alone."

"I have something to ask you," I persevered. "That photo. The person in that photo looks just like my late dad and I have never met you before. I want to talk to you."

She hesitated then sighed.

"All right," she said. "Come in."

She led me into a small, old fashioned room. The sparse furniture that she owned looked like something out of the late nineteenth century and there was a musty smell in the room. She beckoned me to sit down and then sat down next to me.

£What do you want?" she asked in a cold voice.

"How come that the person in your photo looks just like my late dad and, more importantly, what is it doing in your wallet? Who are you?"

She turned her gaze away from me and looked at a blank wall. I could tell that this would become an uncomfortable conversation.

"Years ago, he and I had a relationship. You are the result of that relationship."

Her last sentence felt like a brick falling on my head. A heavy silence fell in the room. A mantlepiece clock ticked, my heart thumping along with it. She turned and looked at me.

"So you are my mother."

She nodded.

"So the woman who raised me since I was a baby is not my mother."

She nodded again.

"How old were you both when I was born?"

"He was nineteen and I was eighteen."

I looked closely at her. Outside in the street, she had looked considerably older. Here, in the comfort of her own home, she looked younger and frailer. Part of me wanted to hug her, but I did not dare. There was too much to sort out first.

"So how come that I am not in your care? What was I doing raised in the home of a woman who was not my mother?"

"He always said that he would be there for me, but then he left me for someone else."

"So that someone else was the person whom I believed was my mother?"

She did not reply, but I could see that she meant "yes."

"He was married to her when you were born."

What a rat! For the first time I felt furious with my father. He had been perfect when I was little, always lifting me up in his arms and calling me his little pet. As I grew older, he would take me and my mother for exotic holidays and we would all go out for long walks in the evenings. Now, in the light of what this woman was telling me, all that was paling into insignificance. He was not trustworthy.

"But how did I end up in her care? Why would she have wanted me if I reminded her of her rotten, two-timing husband?"

"I put you in care when I had you. I could not look after you myself. His wife could not have children."

So that explained something, although I wondered whether his wife knew I was the daughter of a man who had cheated on her with another woman. Most women would not want the offspring of their cheating husbands foisted on them.

"Why did you keep his photo? Did you never try to forget him and remarry?"

She shook her head.

"He was always telling me that he would leave his wife for me, but he never did. I always hoped that he would, so I kept his photo."

She fell silent.

"I arranged for you to be put into care as a newborn and as the time passed, they tried to have children but could not, so I phoned him at work one day and told him about you and suggested that he adopt you and he did."

"Thank you," I said, drained with this information. "I'll go now."

*****

That evening, I confronted my father=s wife. She greeted me with her usual hug and kiss but I moved away.

"I have something to tell you."

She waited.

"This morning, while out for a walk, a woman dropped her wallet and a picture of my dad fell out. I could not stop looking at it."

She became very still. She did not move.

"And?" she finally said.

"This woman turned out to be my mother. I am the result of an affair that she had with Dad while he was married to you. She said that she put me into care when I was born because she was unable to look after me. I am no ordinary child that you took under your wing and raised - I am the daughter of your husband and his mistress."

She turned round and stared at me. I wish that I could take these words back.

There was a colour photograph of my late father and myself as a smiling child on the mantlepiece. I must have been about three or four. I picked it up and took it to my mother.

"Look," I said. "I have the same eye colour and light brown hair. See the resemblance?"

She looked at the photo and then back again at me. I swallowed nervously. I waited for her to say something - anything - even "Get out," but she did not. Instead, she gathered me into her arms and this time I did not try to move away, but responded warmly.

"Your dad and I were married for twenty years," she finally said. "We tried to have children but could not. When we signed up for adoption, he never told me that he already had a daughter. You look like him. You remind me of him. You are the only memory that I have of him."

I nodded. I was too shaken to speak.

"Come on," she said. "We have a lot to catch up on."

The eve-yawning sky is orange and mauve, and I’m early — some things never change.

Your call surprised me. Your proposal to meet again after these three long years apart. A rendezvous at my old high school, a place so memory-stained from our time together that while anxiously pacing, awaiting your arrival, I trip over more ghosts of our youth than I can count.

You taught me how to kiss in that copse of trees, there by the fence. Even now I can taste the smoky menthol on your lips. The cheap beer on your breath. My foolish rebel man.

And there, behind the sports shed, with my fingers tracing hopes for our future across your chest, you told me your dream was to become a welder, to give your parents at least one son they could be proud of. It felt good to see you feel good. To see you look so determined to make something of yourself. To be someone. My someone.

Did your brother ever get released from prison? I wish I could have met him…

White-fluff clouds drift by on a pine-scented breeze, and I settle myself upon the old knoll where we used to sit and watch the football games together. You used to strut up to me all cocky and grinning, with a water bottle slipped under your jacket half-filled with your dad’s cheapest vodka. I could never recall a game’s score, but I will never forget the way I fit so seamlessly in your arms or the tantalizing itch of your scruff as you’d nuzzle your face into the curve of my neck. I always pestered you about trying beard butter to add a little softness. You never did. I’m not ashamed to admit I still savor the memory of every itch.

You’re ten minutes late, carrying a picnic basket and with a blanket slumped over your shoulder. I’m not sure whether I’m more surprised that you had kept your word, or by the bright glow on your face as your eyes meet mine. You look healthy—like you meant it on the phone when you assured me you were finally taking care of yourself.

My heart flutters as you near. I’m glad to let it.

“You came…”

“You called.”

We roll your blanket out along the slope of the hill and sit ourselves down. There’s quiet, spare the peals of laughter from the middle school kids playing high school.

“You… you look good. Beautiful. You always did.” Your voice trails off and your cheeks redden. I doubt you meant to speak so freely. Then, nodding towards the kids racing across the field you say, “We used to do that too, didn’t we?”

“What? Pretend we were older?”

You chuckle, shake your head. “Pretend we were different.”

“I suppose we did.”

I lean towards you, wanting your eyes to find mine. You smell of cheap spice and nerves, and when our eyes do finally meet, we both smile. Just smile.

“You look good, too,” I say. “Healthier. Stronger.” I mime you flexing, then nudge you playfully in the shoulder.

You pinch your belly.

“I think the only thing stronger about me after getting sober is my appetite. It’s been a ferocious little fucker these last few months. Meant to quit smoking too, but I needed something to rival my sweet tooth. Oh! Speaking of sweet tooth…” You pull a homemade carrot cake loaf and a bottle from the picnic basket.

I wince, seeing the bottle. Memories.

“It’s just sparkling cider.” There’s a subtle nip to your tone. And hurt.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to —”

“No. No, it’s alright.” You cut us each a slice of cake and pour glasses. “I can’t blame you for being cautious. Not after… everything I put you through. Sometimes I don’t know if I can even trust myself.”

We start on the cake. You eat your whole slice in three bites, then smirk when you catch me watching you.

“You always did enjoy when I had more meat on me.”

I shrug, mouth full. “What? Makes for better snuggling.”

Your raspy chuckle and your come-and-get-me wink as you cut yourself another slice nearly sends me swooning. It’s all I can muster to resist the urge to lean into you.

It’s so easy, talking with you again. Like no time has passed. Like nothing has changed… Even though enough has.

“How’ve you been all this time?” You ask.

“I’ve been well. I actually start university this fall. Got into — ”

“Wait,” you interject. “Let me guess.”

You scrunch your brow, fixing your eyes on me as though you can still somehow read my thoughts. Like when we were together. And from that smirk tugging at the corner of your still too-kissable lips, I know you know.

“You’re finally starting on your Bachelor’s in… Social Work.” You chew your lip. “At that university out east, uh… What’s it called?”

“Central Washington University,” we say at the same time.

You snap your fingers in triumph.

“I knew it! Congratulations, man. Truly. I always knew you were going to do great things. I’m happy for you.”

I blush.

“Thanks. That… that means a lot.”

I don’t need you to be proud of me — I didn’t come here for that — but it’s something indescribable to know that you are.

Even though I’m the one who ended things between us. Not you.

You still care…

The kids from earlier collect their things and start off the field as stars blink into place across the night sky. Sweet birdsong echoes through the school buildings behind us, and a warm wind blows in, rustling your hair. You look younger.

“And what about you?” I ask. “What have you been up to?”

Such a thoughtless question. I realize that as your nostrils flare and your bright eyes darken. Addiction — that’s what you’ve been “up to.” I wish I could to suck my words back into me.

But you answer. Brave and calm.

“I, uh, started working with my dad last month. At his mechanic shop. He’s been showing me the ropes. Real patient. I’m hoping to save up and get into trade school.” You glance at the stars, knees tucked to your chest. “I like the work well enough. Keeps my hands busy. My mind, too.”

“Sounds like things are looking up for you.” I hope I sound sincere. I am.

“They are. They sure are.”

You finish your second slice of cake and wash it down with a hearty gulp of sparkling cider. And as you pull your cup away, I spot a smudge of frosting caught in your beard. Without thinking, I wipe it away but then pull my hand to your cheek, nuzzle your beard into my palm. It’s so soft.

“You…”

“Finally got around to finding a half-decent beard butter…? Yeah.”

You remembered…

“I thought about you every day,” you say in a rush.

My stomach clenches. I… can’t say the same.

“I don’t expect you to have thought about me. It’s okay if you didn’t. But if you have… I don’t know. Maybe do you think there’s a chance that you could forgive me? That you could be willing to give us another try? I know I wasn’t always good to you — and you’ll never know how sorry I am for that. But if you could ever be open to us again… I swear I’m a better man now. I’d do right by you.”

I forget how to breathe.

“You… sweet, foolish rebel man.”

You beam at me.

And I know my answer. I had known it from the moment you called.

“Listen. We’re both doing well right now. We’re… doing things. For ourselves. And I don’t think now is the time to…”

You deflate. And it’s that day from three years ago all over again.

I shouldn’t have come…

But then you surprise me, saying, “Thank you. For coming. For letting me see you again.” I look into your eyes, so big and brown and beautiful. And I truly am sorry. “I can’t imagine that any of this has been easy for you. And I understand that you probably still hate me and — ”

“I never hated you. Never.”

There’s caution in your eyes. You don’t believe me.

“We just weren’t right for each other. I know that now. You needed help. And I didn’t know how to help you. My biggest hurdle at the time was acing my Spanish test. You… you used to cry in your sleep. Do you remember that?”

Tension lines your jaw. “Did I?”

“Our second Halloween together… You picked me up after school and drove us to your parents’ place. I didn’t realize you had been drinking until I saw you fumbling with the key in the front door. We settled on your bed for some movie, then a six-pack later,” I tap my temple, “You were gone — passed out with your arms still wrapped around me. I wiggled around to look at you, hoping you’d look…peaceful.”

I sigh.

“But you weren’t. There was a tear running down your cheek and I… I hated that I didn’t know how to be better for you.”

You won’t look at me. But for some reason I can’t stop.

“I wanted so badly to make you happy — you were never happy… And then your mom stormed in and spotted the empty beer cans, and she screamed and screamed until you bolted up and started screaming right back. I could see in your eyes how much you hated yourself. And it felt like it was somehow my fault. Like I wasn’t loving you enough. I–I was never enough. And I kept making excuses for you, thinking that if I just gave you a little more time, things would work themselves out. But they never did. Nothing really helped…” I fidget with my hands in my lap. “All I ever wanted was to help.”

You throw your arms around me and we cry together. Your warmth all around me is the most stinging, aching comfort. I don’t want it to end.

“You were just a kid. There’s nothing you could have done other than exactly what you did. You got out. I needed you to get out. And I…” You’re shame made manifest, staring straight at me. “I’m sorry. For everything. I’m so, so sorry.”

“We were both kids.”

“Nineteen — legally not a kid.”

I scoff at that and nuzzle my face into your chest.

“I really did love you. I just didn’t know how to love you enough to make you love yourself.”

“You couldn’t have… I’m the only one who can love me enough to never go back to what I was.”

Why do you look so afraid saying that?

It’s quiet again. Just breath and wind.

“Can you lay with me?” you ask. “Just for a while?”

“Of course.” You move the picnic basket and pat the empty space it left for me to fill. We lay back together, my head at home on your chest. “I missed this.”

“Me, too.”

Time trickles by.

“Thank you,” I whisper

“For what?”

“You called.”

“I meant to sooner.”

“I know.”

We spend a lifetime together on the blanket, embracing one another under a thousand smiling stars. Just you. Just me. Happy. But then life calls, and it’s time.

“Can I see you again?”

I take a breath then touch your cheek, give you one last kiss. “Maybe someday. Is that okay?”

You pull me in tight, smiling that sad, beautiful smile. “Whenever you’re ready. I’ll answer.”

The fog is clearing

From the corners of mine eyes

As years slip by

The haze dissipates

And I start to see

What was shrouded

Slowly revealed

Through the layers

Of mist and conditioning

Of youth and foolishness

The things of true import

Time, freedom, love

Understanding, growth

Patience and kindness

Truth - I see the truth

And I long to speak it

To shout to the rooftops

What has taken me a lifetime

To try to understand

But all comes in good time

It is clear now

As the sand flows through

That pain leads to understanding

To kindness and patience

And the ability to revel in peace

That broken hearts lead to tenderness

To care and gentle words

To tears kissed away

To shared cups of tea

And wicked cryptic crosswords

Aching joints and muscles

Lead to exercise and movement

And delighting in the pleasure

Of inhabiting this body

In all its perfect imperfection

Fits of sadness and depression

And retreating to the jagged

Grey corners of my heart

Make the sunshine warmer

The flowers more radiant

The sand that's flowed is gone

I'll never retrieve it

From the hands of time

But what's left is mine

Mine and no-one else's

To spend how I choose

Sickness or health

Love or loneliness

Creativity or boredom

Peace or despair

I am the scribe of my destiny

The only one who holds the pen

And I can choose to live

My dreams or my nightmares

Hmm, I think I choose dreams

Thanks for the flowers sketched

just outside the window's pane

ours is the beauty fleeting

on glass

fingers leave the remembrance

of heat... a halo

around the frost,

as the wind blows the dusts...

stirring something inside of us

once zoe said "you gotta do what you gotta do, and i gotta do what i gotta do."

and what i gotta to do is some lazy workout.

“what’s a lazy workout?” you ask.

well, it’s like working out as if you’re favourin' the idea of workin' out.

“that sounds so silly,” you say.

well, what if silly works.

i mean, that’s how it worked for em'.

i remember those days of em' when.....(bufferin')

btw, did you catch em's cameo somewhere, maybe?

anyways, the routine goes,

one push-up.

one pull-up.

one chin-up.

one crunch. (Aye, don’t doubt my style.)

one squat.

one dip.

simple.

em' call it a lazy workout because workin' out feels like a commitment. once you start, missin' even one day feels like cheatin'—and em' can’t live with that burden. plus, who has the time, energy or even motivation? in another word, the lazy workout is a regime for all ems, its slogona goes "to the em'. for the em'. by the em'."

roger.