Rage, rage

by Sine Qua Non

The funny thing is that I don’t really miss you. I realize that I now miss the feeling of missing you more than you yourself. I think that is more apt because, well, I fell only for a parcel of your being that was known to me. In fact, I fell for my image of who you were  more than who you actually are. I fell for you in my head.

Now, I’ve zeroed in on the act of falling. I’m longing for the feeling of falling now that it seems I’ve become merely fallen. Have I hit solid ground already? Maybe. Or maybe I’m learning how to walk on air now. Finally, I’ve  taken control of the jump.

Coming face to face with this new truth, I begin to enjoy this new phase of being attracted but not attached. The aftermath of such intense desire is this: the match that was struck burst into flames, more than half is charred, eaten by fire, while the rest of what’s left falls off, and a tiny speck of ember tries to keep itself intact – glows, burns a little more, before finally giving itself fully to a gust of wind. There is no death, only a reunion with the air that gave it life, made it light.

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