skinsink

And to think that after all that time and concern, that they were lessons I didn't really need.  To think that experience would amount to the same ennui.  To think that, even at finest offering, it would be revealed as even more secondary than I already knew it to be.

 It's not the skin that stays. Sometimes some other magnetism remains. But the skin, the skin is all the same. A temporary escape. A moment of drowning. A panic and a relief.  Seeing, in an instant, the entire story play out. Anticipating the end even at the inception.  Your face full of disgust when it's me at your door (the last time). The regularity of a back turned toward me (i looked for you, but could not find you). All bound up in the same moment when you're pulling me in for those first times.  The deep taking in of scent.  The words we say in the beginning that feel new every time (they are all the same).  The calculated energy required to remain aloof and yet immersed.  A nascent yearning, fulfilling and fulfilled.  A wild thrashing of waves,

but the same emergence back to shore.

It's not the skin that stays. The skin is wrapped up in habit and decay.  Maybe some new way to die.  Some new generosity.  Some new delightful pain, but the act is unchanged.

Sometimes
Only
Sometimes strange magnetism remains.