In unfinished sentences. In the one sentence that refuses to leave. "Like a handprint on my heart." In the icy curve of a bottle against your cheek.
"Herbie, why does everyone always leave? ... I had a dream. ... It wasn't for you... For me. ... For me."
But no--it was, and it always is. Always the same.
Shrugging Sisyphus:
The task has no point. The point is the task, the repetition, being willing to live again and again, eternally returning, returning eternally. No regret. Yes. Another step.
"I guess I did do it for me. ... To see you in mink. To see us."
They always leave traces. In words and lacerations. In images and memories. In scents pressed against your sleeve. In the spaces we refuse to visit by walking along the same paths and tracing the footprints that have been left behind.
Why? To see them fly and to let them be free, even if every freedom leaves a trace that cannot be forgotten.
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