Crushed avocado hearts

Sit like a bruise

Staining my hands 

For a minute or two.

They wanted to know how it felt to be alone, but it was impossible to articulate the human condition in so few words. Instead, as dusk hovered between them providing the necessary metaphor for solitude, the conversation outlived any original or proposed intentions. Simply put, when an escape could not be negotiated the conversation began instead to progress slowly, with each answer and question dropping a syllable in turn, until only mumbles and nods remained. In this way it was bearable to continue the discussion without losing any degree of self control or voicing anything more dangerous than pleasantries. Meanwhile the sun continued to set and the heat of the day began to cool, as the stone wall against which they were seated took on a calming effect, cold against flushed skin. 

We matched 

Older, wiser, darker, lighter

And we fell together

Burning up with the new dawn

Holding onto each other

With the full force of adulthood.

This evening is not extraordinary, it is not forgotten nor is it distinguished. This evening rests on split decisions, consequences and human error. It rests on choices, and pathways; that split second as the brain wires itself to a problem, and reacts. For this is how every evening of our lives no matter how benign or trivial, without even necessarily our own input is constructed. This particular evening merely serves as a reminder, that time does not necessarily heal all wounds.   

Like painting, writing was there to provide both release and reasoning, the storm and the calm.