The opposite of an abbreviation is two going where one cannot.
In its longer form does silence mature?

Exhausted by sigh, incomprehensible in translation. Taking the talking too far. Away from, incessantly away from. As it transpires it is not always possible to have been there, even when I was.

Then whisper peters out, and in fall finally understands landing as still movement. The impersonal fade floats; for the watching of or as another. And the taking? or for the taking. Leave behind is only a back length away, no heroic lifting of guard reduces confusion breeding confusion over any and every who. Over if at all.

waving

I’m offline for a few weeks, bye for now and thank you to those who have been dropping by regularly.

If there was a chance that you might read me, because as I said “her whisper remained unfinished” even after introduction, then descent’s toppling of elation would not be carried out in vain, as an incomplete collision might pile-up to awkwardness.

Through nocturnal clarity, a scene of split-level wavering. Interruption fails to halt the toll that has been ringing since ringing began. Sprinting on echos that lure and pack the changes that touch the sides of a life.

Such inaccurate pressure day-dreamt back into ease, coming up short of unshackled bicker by the charm of eye-catching grit. An iota of jeopardy left intimately flipped. Scattering simple plans to the core of repeat, she reserved one foot for the last step away from this distorted shindig, a reunion of the three I’s who in falling a year ago said:

At tether, all hurdles endlessly typify each other, unevenly sited as they are between expect and overcome. Creating space for more endings: this can go, this can go… (and go they do) frees all nosedives from air pressure.

There is likely no tomorrow where an ‘I might’ of mine segues into ‘did’. Unlimited ‘mights’ can’t fathom the palm of your hand or why ‘in the’ has such a portentous echo. Palms can and are leapt from, or is that slithered from in the manner of a reluctant bungee jumper.

Is it safe to go back to misunderstanding? and consider that you were right all along, even though all is long gone. If there had been no squabble, a table might have been laid for those cards, leaving the surface scarce but the centre riotous. I use this time to re-view, because I can see distance as not only a long way off.

Pause

Unfurled for now. You can find me here though.

Thud.

Misunderstandings inevitably sit. At the head of confusion we can squabble until right has no choice in the matter and lays at the table a falling out or falling in. A falling in with that is neither fraught nor deficient, leaves scarcely any surface left to approach.

In reaching bottom rock, where underside astounds, giving away any attempt at tempt. It is here that curios collect, with a stark rarity of reaction. Those moments in miniature that pool and band together for our own story’s sake, can climb out at any time and shake off excess sentiment.

And yet, even in fall, mistaken in outlook, with remembrance that conveniently matches melancholy, there are always two or more ways to perceive choice made by mood, that flatterer of temperament, divining arbitrariness from the residue of presumed understanding. My delusion has purposes beyond figment.

In holding onto ‘ly’, sudden fractures, and calls for splint to support further expectations. Powerless to mend maybe, advancement carries repeat out of reach, planning dreams with no nightlife to diffuse them. There cannot be an extended explanation, as I only disperse one moment at a time through the opening left by you.

At times like this, an outside influence longs me along, that is to say yanks my yearning for re-tread; such a fleeting expense could be too ive-y, as place, takes place, takes place and you oblivious to evaporation, leave my findings out in the open. We still call it progress, under our breath, where condensation forms a film over all that remains of suddenly.

In coming third, I noticed both and not, an end to approach and pause.

An annual instance veers into view. Hearing only distance this year, my eyes relieved of stares, penetrate to the pupil’s light class. In re-arranging the calendar month, dates order themselves around you, or so you believe.

At that microscopic place of discomfort, lazes hope, laced with anti-anticipation, fortified by it, as a fresh grain of uncertainty reinvigorates touch, coaxing your gist from the right hand of morning.

I wedged that door with sanity, understandably contrived for the sake of retrospect. Only in looking back does forward fit the frame, where edges meet naturally, in the stills of life that shutter past yesterday. Is it feasible that some lines in sand don’t wash and that a grain lodges between two toes, without you ever taking your shoes off?

Armed with a torch, powered by affection, beam hits upon. In the early days of light, to look over the shoulder of luminosity was indeed a slap on the back for obscurity. That afternoon your door slammed.

Step led step, as the balls of my feet rounded an opposing bend in your nature, an unclassified conscience arranged right before my eyes. Sleepers wake the walk, as I amble through the night in search of dreams that show you in a different, if not darker, light.

By inventing an internal speech that dissolves before reception, a voiceless fidelity, pitched higher than shrill, called for cover. Scribbled under your tracks were day old deliberations, brought to heel by tread.

Understanding chimed and began browsing disappointment for sensation. By cutting my life in half, and not holding onto your share, I wasn’t left with two directions, but a longing that divided sense straight through the ‘n’, leaving se’se to eventually suggest meaning.

But in solving the riddle of sight, your appearance rhymed with a trick question. A latent buzz removed its dust-jacket and indulged in page-turning. A confectioner's scent hit the spot, just as who teased why to the counter.

Tell me again what you will never hear. The years clatter past your words: evergreen embers, lacking flicker. And I, run through with whys, frisk the alphabet irrationally, in search of a stray script, a haven for answers that regardless don't solve feelings.

From there our differences lay, still active. Always close to calling. From a tunnel, echos escape twice. But sayings reverberate, bouncing on the mind’s walls, whilst unsounded actions wrap themselves in reflective rerun. “Tell me again.”

Then long extends to longer. Until now shortens. In fall, vertigo suffers from realisation. Replacing a hand, for the one that let go. She showed me her grip; mine less convinced of palm, tipped touch aside; and you sauntered into yesterday.

Depending where you were your reply varied. Like a triangle sometimes missing a side, it was difficult to sound whole. In the end, silence ground the clock down, leaving a debris of hours. Too late to number or take the shape out of. There are ways of fleshing out what is left, but only for so long.

Or hear enough, or say ‘that is all’. As if conversations ended. When I speak of you to myself, there are no answers. You may cover the same tonal ground with her and yet unobtrusively you repeat nothing. Again is once more. The same declarations exclusively made.

To remember you in tentative bursts, letting a flurry up-end the day. She was tomorrow at the tip of life, so casual yet eloquent, never letting conversation overtake her. And it was in the talk that I had tasted you most, dissected syllables. Analysis belatedly expected some other phenomenon. We can’t sound the same to everyone.

Mistaken for someone else, in the raw, undiluted weight of then. I could not imitate her; pretence humours the air we speak, with every misled word. There is no way to forestall the past. When I think in advance it’s as if pressing-on had somewhere yet to go.

Unsettling herself next to you. She was in shadow, but not shaded. Staying unprotected as protection, I had been witness to hidden vulnerability: always more visible. Opposites abound, in the confines of imagination. Had reality mistaken me?

With you as pivot, emotions swivel on mental gymnastics. Caring dithers over the image it holds of its own concern, in a quandary over one-sided equals. Where fifty-fifty doesn’t balance as we would expect, because we mostly hope for more than a hundred. At least in fall there is no up and down, just sides that take themselves apart.

Then I blinked and missed more rapidly. A shut. Nothing could prevent. Even a blind eye didn’t erase her image. Were you also in memory or sitting beside me now? It’s tricky to undo divides and takes elaborate cuts to scissor.

I imagined your outcome awaited me, the consequence of you both. From a cloud-top perspective, trying to keep a grip on attitude, suspended at insubstantiality; I saw when I wasn’t looking. This desire to see, kept my eye captive, when I could have been enraptured, not tightening the corner.

To go-between depth and the stare of an instant, both these mingled and found surface in her features. Rapport by itself treats no-one to understanding. And yet, you appeared to know more than touch alone could establish. From those depths it was hard to pick up the carefree pieces, but you were prepared to put together more than this or that, it was something she would come to understand, just as I had; but again, I wondered what the difference was. Feeling at the mercy of the difference telling. If the tale spiralled into control, there would be no outcome.

There is an age for everything. Earlier isn’t always the beginning, though she may not have agreed. In being suddenly so near even space could have felt excluded. She balanced her dismay on the pinhead of moment. Unsteady in touch. Bleached of ease. Tumbling, with only hope to halt her.

She startled you, in landing so close. And, in fall there is something uplifting in descent, that takes high by the ‘i’. Nothing is simple with someone breathing down your neck. Just hot air, you might say, that would fill a balloon with your small talk. But lets not be flippant, not now, in the face of lost time.

Ideas you had previously sold to people with none, you would tempt her with for free. And they were indeed tantalising, I was prepared to vouch for that under duress. If she fell from inspiration, there would be no catch to save her; no barter system to wrangle a cost. It was nothing if not leap.

As it was, I was watching her step. Any sloppy placement might only take her nearer to where I once stood: unknowingly behind the scenes, still pushing towards the fore. It mattered little to me now, but she hadn’t come this far to look back and you were not about to run out of far-fetched ideas.

Whether she saw you as I did: indelibly tinted, remained between us, like time spent unintentionally painting in personality cracks, it was never enough just to seem. She would say I needed to get closer; I would step back. Straightforward complications realise least. If it hadn’t taken me so long to understand that, I might have relied less on memory and more on… well on something that didn’t recall itself before I was ready or even able to judge.

I watched her, as I would myself, for flaws in vision, the myopic reaches of narrow, channel less than is necessary. But when sound dominates, hearing by-stands. I saw nothing in her eyes, which is where we usually look. As for you, I cannot begin yet, until I decide who to remember.

Arriving ahead, with the torrent in sight, I waited for my memories to catch up and imagined what I had just seen. You both appeared slightly blurred at first, but not enough to prevent tomorrow’s focus from clarifying your vagaries of heat haze.

When the crowd settled for being many the horizon tempted no-one except us. As she left the circle I followed. Way behind, like a disoriented self-stalker, it was difficult to keep track. Hampered by coming face to face with her mirage. Impression sent “seeing is believing” out of all magnification. So as I saw you approach her the flood of images in your wake could have drowned the future.