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.”