impressions

You can’t always get what you want. Just because something feels real doesn't mean that it is, or even though things go to shit, it doesn't mean that what you felt wasn't real. Life is about fingerprints and footsteps: those shadows we impress upon each other... however shallow such impressions may grow to be.


We walk out of this world with dimpled flesh and hearts tattooed with half-finished conversations, shards of wine glasses, sarcasm honed to a razor’s edge, and endless sentries of streetlights — those caustic Philistines who ever bore witness to our shame. The thing is, we like to write until there is an ending, until a sole dot punctuates the deep silence hanging above resolution like a halo.


But death is not a period. For many of us, at least, there is no curtsy or curtain call... There is no fading out into blackness while violins and cellos frame our exit. When we mourn, it is not because it's the end, but because there is no resolution. And we mourn and we mourn because our skin still prickles and the goosebumps come at night until the weight of everything we can’t forget becomes eternal.