A Response to Monet and His Dark Waters

She left me. Months ago. I clung to an abscess; festering ache of my emptiness. Bound. As in: it was to happen. Bound. As in: to the shadow of her presence. Floating amidst rabid waves, muddled and tethered off. This is alone. Not the wilderness, but to be amongst so many, invisible. A single-legged beggar pleads not for change but for a kind eye, the attempt of a smile. Fog descends and the emptiness was found not to be empty, but a well – a welling, an overwhelming, a bay of salted waters. And these boats tumbling over waves and into each other. A dull clunking muffled in cold evening air and skin as a story – scars and all, the goosebumps, the sudden flush. And a memory of soft but tangled hair, awhip in seafair storms. A triumph set in creases – beside the eye, the corner of a mouth. In all seriousness, a destination – bound by a god and molded by man. A draft at my elbow. A set at the space between eyebrows – concentration, determination. A reason to sit. A reason to record. To slow it down.

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