Derrida Still Lives

Near - 142 Words
Lindsey Thompson

Explosions In The Sky plays and I watch the past scroll by in brilliant photographs of where I once lived. Names and faces and places and bodies that used to be close seem so far removed from reality, only existing in my mind. I feel the crescendo and revel in how near you are.

I sleep alone, or with someone but still alone. And those people change from night to night but never offer any more comfort to my runaway skin. The shudders of the ceiling fan pull my brain back to summers waiting and waiting and waiting for nothing. Something out of nothing. Something secret about being secret.

You told me he was dead and I felt the years, the miles between the us I dream of and the us we are. Your eyes are warm and close as I weep.

I, the Acadian