People get scared about never coming back. About everything that they can't quite see between the auburn leaves. About that which that is waiting to take them, from their loved ones, from their lives, from their safety net and to never return them. My palms were being scratched but it wasn't the same. I knew it and she knew it and the sun knew it because it was beating down in a way in which it hadn't in days, weeks. An indicator, a message. 'Something is different, look out!'. Thanks sun, I knew anyway, but thanks. People get scared about never coming back. About what is next on the trail. I wished we could never return, the wild isn't so bad. I feigned being scared but, in honesty, I would enjoy my bones caked in the mud if they were tangled in yours. Truely, it is coming back that is the hard part, being lost with you is easy.

Realisation of a complete thing against realisation of process.

And, lo, infants were beneath my feet as I stumbled around the grass.
and as suddenly as I stepped in the car I was in the house.
and as suddenly as I was in the house I stepped onto the street again, drink on my breath.
I walked, I walked with pace, and let my light head mix with the gravel under my feet and thrust me onwards.
And, lo, I was atop a mountain in seconds, feeling wild with possibility
and as suddenly as I was atop that mountain I was on the ground, at a brick-wall.
and as suddenly as I met that brick wall, I found a way through.
Realisation of a complete thing against realisation of process.
There were infants everywhere and I was planning a trip, away.
Is forming a family a form of completion? I'm not sure.
And, lo, I was walking the same streets again and at a swing set with familiar tones soothing my ear, like an ice-pack on a fresh wound. I never truely sleep, it just kind of looks that way.

Joint custody of intimacy.

And you share intimacy without the sucking, the fucking, the kissing but just as raw, rawer. Locking toes and fingers and staring into each others eyes and birthing an understanding that can't come to total fruition. She spoke about her schizophrenic mother and how when people absent-mindedly call her crazy in reference to her exuberant personality it makes her sad because her mother really is crazy and she isn't, she is merely loud. She spoke about her relationships and how she was thinking about her friends recently and she realised she found each one of them had something about them she utterly despised, some selfish infliction. Aside from me. There was touching and she told me she likes my new haircut and I limped to the bathroom on my broken digits. Did I tell you about the intimacy? God, it was majestic. It was truely awe-inspiring. We were utterly in tune, locked in. We drank a hell of a lot. She saw someone who looked like someone she knew who recently died of cancer and this made her sad for a while and we spoke about all the people we've known who've died and the mood dropped and the feelings were colder, but the intimacy flourished. Birthing of total intimacy without entering each other but at the same time I guess we did enter each other. She spoke about me leaving and she said she wished she could come with me but she couldn't, she has commitments, ties, him. It was said in that tone halfway between serious and playful, that lifts spirits just enough without breaking any real boundaries. We birthed this intimacy and then we had to say goodbye and split and take joint custody of the intimacy and I took little pieces and she took little pieces and this raw emotion continued to live just seperated and it is almost tangible. I swear, thats how real it is. Almost tangible without the sucking, the fucking, the scratching .. just small pieces of contact, enough. People talk about sparks, fucking sparks. I felt real genuine sparks, burning, searing, it was kinetic. Fuck. I woke up and vomited this morning and I could still hold onto my piece of intimacy but alone.