Picking

A simple conversation, not on the phone or face to face, leads me to spend days picking at the wound that I never let heal.

Just for a moment I'll think, I'll pretend it could be right. Maybe if I just pick at this corner the rest of the wound will remain sealed up tight.
No matter, it all comes undone with a whisper of the dream, with a hint in the deepest dredges of my heart of the dream that goes unfulfilled.

I know it happens, that it will happen, every single time. Yet I can't stay away, like a moth to a flame. The cliche so overplayed and melodramatic yet it fits this melodrama raging in my heart so well.

It's exhausting, this constant vigilance, to not long for it so deeply, to not look at it to closely, to not want the dream so badly. This longing that finds me in the deep darkness of the night when I sleep, when my defenses are down.
It finds me waking to the shrill alarm clock, stumbling into the cold bathroom with tears on my face.

How long? How long? How long will it be until this is healed, until I stop picking at the wound I don't let heal. How many more moments will there be when my breath catches in my throat at the very thought, the very hint of a life spent, I can't even say.
It's to much, to hard, to painful to imagine it without the possibility of it becoming true. This hope is foolish to hold on to, it is to much.


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