So what happens now?
I think we're all looking. Not for company, but completed solitude.
...
I wanted what he had. I wanted to know what it was like to believe you could save someone's life. He'd been saved and he knew it. Who was I to say it wasn't true?
Maybe that's why things don't work. I'm a skeptic.
This writing acts like a garbage dump or holy cemetery of my past. I organize everything abandoned. I take all that's wrecked and build something new.
I can make things stay together. I can make them work again.
...
"It's okay to sit and think awhile," she told me.
I nod. I can sit. I can watch the sky light up with near-misses.
All I want to do is be amongst the rubble, cleaning old parts. I collect the broken things like treasure. I want to hold them. I want them to forgive me for being thrown out in the first place.
I'm a woman made of stone. I escape more than before and I don't invite anyone with me. When things happen, I just watch, passive.
"I'll use this later."
I'm somewhere else, reassembling, in solitude.
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