W. G.The Woven Guild

I hang onto the silk thread hoping I’d find you at the end of it, but I’m closer to falling to my death than I am to even seeing the end of the thread, let alone you.

All of it ended oddly. I can’t mark it on a calendar and hear my heart shatter on that one day every year. I can’t tell how many months it has been since it all ended. It just did.

Abrupt endings are privileged enough to have the closing curtain, perhaps an ending worthy of a standing ovation, as well. They have a stage to start and end at, and a closure to define their story by. What do faded endings have? The ones where you’re simply left guessing the ‘when’ and ‘how’?

Some endings are not rewarded with closures or dates to mark godforsaken anniversaries every year. All they have are voids and obfuscated, blurred lines that one possibly cannot decipher. The hopes these endings carry exist much like them – it’s almost like a system, an emotional framework. The hopes, too, fade with the passage of time; they, too, don’t die abruptly.

Hopes and horror are two peas in a pod – both are masters of haunt and hover.

I wish I were magnanimous enough towards myself to close the gates once and for all. Still, the haze asks me to keep them open, and the cobwebs beyond them command me to shut them with all my unanswered questions, mysteries, and an outrageously perplexing timeline.

All I will be left with are images of us in my heart and a life that never truly waited for me to reconcile with the demons I had within myself. The demons who show up with all their tragedy and poetry when I think of you, of us, of the road uphill and the dead end I sprinted towards.

To whoever bids adieu next, mark a date on the calendar – the torment of closed doors can haunt me well enough.