The Last Bastion

*licks*

There are words written down on hidden things in dark places that are not meant to be read. They are the words of our other times, not our triumphs but of our unwanted illnesses and our sweet dying dancers.
Sometimes we open these cupboards and we get what we want, and enhancement of our emotion, confirmation that it really does all suck and we might as well die, stop the confusing endless question of this reality.
But then it’s picnics and whence-you-friendship all over again and we buy bigger padlocks to shut ourselves out. We say, “Well, I’ve learnt that lesson, I won’t open these doors again,” and every day we find ourselves kicking a few inches more sand off the raw earth where we buried the keys.
Do NOT read back the old words, they will send you digging. But we write the words anyway. I do still hurt. Of course I still hurt. We all still hurt and you’re lying if you tear the pages out of that book and truly burn them. We can never quite bring the matches to that final act. So lonesome they lie, tucked under loose floorboard equivalents, romantic notions of forgotten memories, the sad oxymoron.
I wish there was just a way, though, to buy you a copy of that book like I would buy you any other. To confirm somehow that every now and again you  are reading the same pages I do, and still look up at the same stars with that same split moment before the door snaps back shut and the padlock does its job.

To wonder… if in your weaker (or better) moments… if you break too.