Little White House
not unlike the girl,
and not unlike shooting without aim,
but more like slowly forgetting,
everything you used to bear and cling to,
like it was a part of you,
or something you needed to function,
but realizing it's finally leaving,
and in that leaving is return,
in memory to something that never needed,
return and remorse and reprise.
and still more like knowing,
nothing stays the same,
and finding that truth,
makes everything stay the same,
knowing it never will.
time has that funny way,
that almost cynical, piercing,
way of taking away everything you clutch,
and forcing you to find a new grip.
but this isn't mountain climbing, right?
yet when i look behind me it sure looks like one.
© 2009 southernblood
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