A memory. A moment.
Like one cruel awakening with Alzheimer’s Disease. Something gone from the mind, then the heart, then the soul.
I blow my wind against the interior of this window. As I do it, I recall the definition to sameness. I recall what is left of it, as the words within a book. As I do, I am left with puddles. Just surroundings that never match. Love is that sameness, though my reflection casts a shadow. A blackness, that is where my heart has such pitch, such a memory that never leaves. It is a shadow that is never ignited by my rage.
One frame, and one image, with the former confining the latter. One death of my heart, with a life that stays. She beats in it, with the same images that do not decay.
In love, there is something I fathom. Of its sameness. Of the heart’s protection, of stolen or reprieving moments that have guilt submit. We wash ourselves in streams. It results in sameness. We carry ourselves, unable to let go. We are, in submission, moving only on knees. How like a moment, as that, when a single stroke upon the vulnerable and bare shoulder can result in the birth of an ocean. It can be the turned knob of a faucet to emit the liquids we had clogged in our eyes.
But, it is the window facing me, with my reflection never moving.