Winter's Madmen

The glove has fallen off the other hand. Papers signed, sealed and filed away, in a place that seems foreign for now until little bits and pieces of things remind you why they were put there or the heaviness of their grief. Dancing to no music, urging for something within you to transpire but nothing biblical for we aren't looking to be saved or redeemed but tasted and savored and remembered. Us remembering one another at different moments but both moments connecting us to the same moment. Moments are funny little devices left in pockets of spring jackets so after a long winters pain we can warm up to a sudden memory which housed in your apparel, as if shielding its eyes from the sun. demon-esuqe tongues elapsing on saving graces while we all call shotgun at this affair. walking off into different directions, not really knowing where each other are off too. someone once told me that people are to walk in and out of your life, to teach you something to allow you to experience something, and then they are to walk out and leave you with just that, a memory. a moment. an experience. and even though you won't want them to go, you'll beg and pled and lock your heart up ever more so that you can bask in the memory soon the chains on your heart will unfasten, your moments will collect dust on the shelf in your mind and you will thaw, like a winter's madmen after he's hibernated for the winter months. you will feel passion again, you will long for desire as always. "the people you love are rarely the people who love you back." but don't fight for someone who isn't willing to fight back.