I don’t have time for this. It isn’t that I find it inconvenient or that I’m impatient with it- you’re here right now, asking me to sit with you, but I have somewhere to be. I have obligations that I look forward to, progress that I am making. But I need to do this, too. I want to. You’re less immediate now, not exactly faded so much as quiet. Vibrant, and distant. There’s enough ocean between us that the salt is diluted, that your heat is a ripple in the sky out towards the horizon. There will never be a lessening in that way, the undeniable and indelible forever-effect in the life and death that thrived under the light you brought to this place. And I still feel the gravity of that here, bedrock shored up and anchored under the weight of us. It’s easier to see from here, you know, without the friction and volatility. I’m trying to unearth the honesty of my shadow aspect, the fragile and poisonous tendrils that choked us. Trying to own and keep it, hold it and the whole accountable for who we are and what we do, braiding my facets finally into the whip I’m meant to be. I can’t touch the truths across the ocean. I don’t want to, even for as much as I want to understand. To help. That isn’t my purpose. I’m not sure it ever was, no matter what my intentions were. I’m not romanticizing the chaos away, it’s a part of this, too. The way it raked across my ego, exposing the ichor and evil inherent in my righteous ignorance. My hostility. I’m past the apologies, I’m not healthy enough yet to remain indifferent when confronted with your presence. You’re still the trigger, I’m still the gun. But it’s better.

We were dead long before we were buried, and I’m waiting for the grass to grow over that scorched earth. Giving it as much of whatever it seems to need in the moments when it catches fire. Mostly I stay away, because I have places to be and progress to make. Because this requires setting aside the objectivity that shelters me from the grief that’s left and pressing my palms to that burnt dirt. Feeding it my love and intention, forgiving myself and letting it riot back to life. There’s still more ugly to scratch out of its depths and I am loathe to disturb what’s already settled. Maybe I’ll plant alfalfa here, a sweet fuel for the animal inside me. Whatever it’ll be, I’m not quite ready. When life settles again, I’ll come back and let my guard down. I’ll cling to the dirt and let it take me until I’m finished growing. I’ll see you again when this is the only place that I have to be.