Half of your stories are unfinished or yet-to-be-determined
like that last one about the oldest longest-running friend.
You get distracted by the seed of something, its potential
to get grown, you get stuck on loss and longing, you hit
"publish post" faster than you should. Still, you were not
trying to make a metaphor of your lost friend, but you
have to admit that's the way it turned out, that if
someone read it that way and thought the story was really
just a metaphor about his experiences, perhaps even
his experiences with you, he wouldn't necessarily be wrong.
Small circles. These rings need stretching. You keep thinking
the word "new" only words fall short. Suddenly pigeons
are in symphonic coo, the heat's hissing is made into song
because heat must pass through such a small valve.
I want to tell you that most of the stories we tell are stories
we tell ourselves. Good or bad. Helpful or hurtful. You must
remember your mother differently, perhaps not even
as she was. You must be okay with reheating dinner.
We keep walking through our lives. On and on