Turning Point

The most unfortunate things are ones we see coming, time in advance, when they seem as just ants in the distance, so small and so we stop staring and we go about our ways; and when the horizon comes, we’re dwarfed. It’s hard for me to know with certainty, just when the point did turn, but If I’d to guess it’s when I saw ants.

She tells me this word now: geodic. I ask her how she means. It’s that we’re broken, she says, that we’ve retained, but now separate, we see now that we shine. My words, not hers. Her words: I want her now, now that I do not have her; that what had seemed dull in truth was not, that I did not know then what I’d had, that perhaps neither did she. She says this now, but still I wonder about ants. How did we become dull, how did we forget what was or what is. I thought we did once shine–that was then–this is now. We’d ignored the ants.


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