Not An April Fool

You were once the unsuspecting doorway to my better life, an unobstructed threshold across which barriers of social and economic consideration became somehow less meaningful, allowing me a whispered moment to be better than I was, alone.  And I wanted so desperately to live out my whole life in that one moment, buffered and insulated from an unsympathetic world not yet understanding, safe in the warmth of your sophic, earnest embrace, my soul soothed by the lightest delight of your delicate hand.

I would have followed you to the ends of time, unquestioningly.  I would have sacrificed daily at the altar of your heart, scrupulously.  I would have carried the load of our two souls- yours tattooed indelibly upon mine, the very tapestry of our love, intertwined and weaving infinitely out the story that was to be us.

But then, you made it all go so horribly fucking wrong.  And you never once gave me the chance to make it right.  Or even marginally less awful than what we had been living, that burden of day-to-day animosity and secretive, fetid resentments always simmering just under your imperfect surfaces.

The rules changed, halfway through the game, seemingly on your whim.  The expectations became horribly unfocused, caught vibrating in a shimmering, deadly web of lies and deception cast from invasive interlopers, muddling up connections and driving wedges.

It took nearly the literal end of the world for me to see how wrong I was in loving you and in making you those promises that you never really intended for me to keep. The world seems every day now to be burning down in a cacophony of dry coughs and raging fevers as the infection runs its course though us all.  It is only a matter of time.

And so this is usually a time when thoughts generally turn to those that we love, or have loved, meaningfully.  We try to think of happier times in an effort to tamp down the creeping insanity of another bored night of quarantined introspection.  We play songs that make us smile, or cry gentle tears, the nostalgia taking the place of nourishing human interaction now so very much lacking in our daily diets of time-wasting endless consumption.

But, I did not think about you.

There isn’t any room for grudges here at the end of the world. The time for all that nonsense had long since passed, evaporated in the unpredictable crash of a pandemic clamping down, hard.  I know now what matters most; I know now what truly matters at the ending of another isolated early spring night, here in this socially-distanced City of Wayne.  And it isn’t you.

It never really was.

About Grey Fox, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

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