I find no satisfaction in the unrelenting notion; I wish I would have somehow met you, long before. The cracks we continue to step in may have been shallower (or at the very least, different) had we had each other to watch, before we walked.
There is no use in crying over spilled blood ( …I believe Shakespeare said that), however the knowledge that something proves no use does not keep it from sneaking up on us when we feel of none, ourselves.
When confidence is asleep, its detractors tie it down;
The longer its eyes are closed, the tighter its hands are bound.
(I have been… asleep… for far too long.)
I want the warm clarity of ‘knowing’, without the cold mirroring guessing; I want factual measurement without fantastical underminement.
I now want many things that I have forsaken, by not caring enough to save them as they were dying, then.
You can untie my hands, and splash water (with lye) on my near-dead eyes. You can breathe calm and certainty, into lungs deflated by disbelief, and ambiguity.
Or, can you?
It’s too late, either way. You can catch the wayward glass, or watch it smash, and hide the pieces; I’m not sure which is my destined state.
But, the glass has already fallen, and the only hands with any chance are…