‘Under The Final Fragmented Fall Of Trying’ by Andrew Bradford

When she came in the room, he was seeking to find his lost sense of wholeness

Dropped my bag down in one city and wound up living in six others

Never underestimate a man’s capacity for longing in the face of loss

He looked at her and whispered,

Maybe never

Watch the delight on the faces of those who understand nothing but their own self-loathing

He had a mirthless inner grin that only those who had known him for years could see

They were disposed to grand gestures which signified their own shrieking soul-numbed horror

She told a long story of a man she had known in some unfeatured past she hoped to lose

Why are you running, she asked him, to which he replied,

Forgot how to walk

Just stood there slack-jawed in the middle of that place, not sure of anything anymore

Tidied up the place real nice, didn’t he? Such a shame he had to,

leave so damn suddenly

Some interpret her silent manner as a case of spiritual peace

But they only hear voices murmuring,

Lower now, slower still, wait for nothing least bit real

It was at that moment she at long last realized…

How the fragments of inner-felt glass were only wet with tears, not blood

Falling, falling, falling, falling…

“Maybe we could make a go of it; sleep now try again at light.”

Copyright 2015 by Andrew Bradford. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

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