The question doesn’t remain. Action does. The question died. It withered away and smacked itself flush against the others, decaying in a bucket of composted words. Z’s next to J’s. Raunchy ecstasy cozying up to the Songs of Solomon. My name, scribed backwards in age 4 handwriting layered atop the musings of my many mishaps.
I hovered over the pile with tender intention, equipping my soul with the energy to aerate this in which I had gathered with time. All I had written, all I had confessed, all that befell from the tips of my fingers tumbled through and within each other. The blood on my hands washing away with every turn.
I whispered into the mess.
Forgive me. Forgive me. You held me. Held me. And when I thought I was without – there you were. There you were. I’m sorry. My mouth twists in sorrow. I’m so goddamn fucking sorry. You are many. You are the tangible. You are the intangible. You are within. You are above. You were what I had asked for. You were needed.
I breathed it in through my ears, raucous noises conjured from all that was before me. I twisted my head, nuzzling myself into the wave of sound whose wake carried me into a chaotic serenity one only comes to know with experience.
I pushed it all into the earth and felt the warmth of the fire that had ignited around me, the wind whipping it into an enrapturing scene.