The Art of Solarity

It’s always a good-bye, the pivoting shoulder, the turning cheek.
The pulling away, the event, Act III. It is the place I leave my keys, a commonality.
I don’t notice it anymore, the perpetuating habit; the routine.

Why stay wide open? When one can close the door, can leave?
I can feel it shutting now, the closing gate, the feelings fade.
The apathy ascending, the defenses rising, the shifting tides, the guarded mind.
It’s always a good-bye, an armed heart, yielding swords and waging wars.
The bidding adieu, the amicable truce.

It’s all an art:
The act of turning someone you know, into someone you knew.
The science behind leaving a lover in fifty different ways,
The preservation of solitude.

The art, the craft, the destruction at play;
leaves behind: a messy collection of days,
a hurricane.

You see, I don’t belong.
Not even among the ruins beneath my feet.
not amongst your peaceful sleep or violent dreams,
‘nor spread across the side of your palm.
Understand, I haven’t been anywhere all along.

But you could see me! You declare you could feel me, you swear you could breathe me.
But I was only ever merely,

a thought, a name,
an idea that never rose again.

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