Slowly

SLOWLY

Slowly turning a page. Can’t help it. Almost finished this one. Can’t reread it. Got the gist the first time. The story rolls on past the last word. Lick your thumb, and follow the rhythm that is called for.

Slowly blending the tale, it’s intensity becoming muted slightly by the rest of life, omitted during the concentration of a heavy read, but now calling for a breather, and a look around. There is a big world out there beyond the categories that kept it in control.

Slowly closing the book, a diary of secret thoughts, a notice board of public scenes. The handwriting is mine, about us, intense and adrift. Can’t read some of the the entries, ink too smuggled or pace too fast. Can’t recall many of the things I can read. Important then, hazy now.

Slowly walking away, having packed the boxes and shed the baggage, and cut the ties, and lamented the losses in waves that still roll.
When this central entity becomes the stuff of memory, I shall be so grateful to have been handed the book, and to have put my keen and greasy prints a bit upon it.

G.M.S.