Instead the wrinkles just get deeper with hope; thick with doubt; treacherous with realization. I still spend my nights... you still spend your free moments...
On some level, my eyes reach for the wrinkles, taking solice in the herstories contained in each crevice. I've said before that I am more functional at my worst that she is at her best, but I am not sure that's the right idea. Perhaps it is just that our paths curve in different directions; each of us sometimes not caring who gets lost in the process. Not caring if we are the latest casualty.
So, I look down at the ground, searching for a crumb left as a sign... looking for anything left to guide me back... Wondering if there are signs and if I would recognize them if there are... wondering why I am ok with crumbs... wondering if I have become complaisant, and if so, how?
I remember when I first started on this journey. I felt so full. My packs contained more nourishment than I ever thought I would need. Yet, years and decades down the road, I feel drained empty; not sure where to look or where to go. It's like years ago, when we sat on that bench at 2 or 3am, trying desperately to connect; knowing in the back of our heads that it was a losing battle. So, we sat there and I said, "I am so deep, I can't even see which way is up." I was talking about depression, but it's applicable in this case too.
So, I sit here alone, crumpled into a mass of something; what, I do not know... searching the threads of the carpet; scouring the floors of my path for just one crumb; one clue; one sign... knowing which way is up, but absolutely terrified to take the first step.