Here I lay, awake at odd hours, masochistically inactive, unmoving toward the other side of the burnt bridge, hoping the flames may spark the resolution unachieved on the greener side during sunnier times. Perhaps this is what keeps a frantic mind moving toward sleepless nights, into open space that is the cataclysmic demise of busy thoughts, what keeps us howling to the night about a paw full of thorns when, really, we were the ones fooling around in the rose bush in the first place.
So, then, I patiently wait for the day when time is at the mercy of selfish hands, skipping past upsetting affairs, slowing the motions during every arc, and pausing at each passion until the moments are so emblazoned in your being, you hum them under heavy breath each night you sleep alone. The frivolity of inaction will, then, slip away to obscurity, chalking up each bad decision to something beyond all control.
Perhaps, then, we can sleep at night.
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