We rise to electric music. Heart disturbed, before the eyes. We know something is waiting. The day, as bright and empty as when Adam began. We seek out the sun, always rising on the wrong side of the house. Shrouded in down, we wonder if it would be easier to remain in our damp grave. Heart settles. Mouth smiles. Lazarus rises.
We’re so far apart. Me, right there and you, right here. Like a dead mother, you never existed. And…everything doesn’t have to be so heavy, because as soon as you return we’ll smile. At our wicked ways, we’ll cry tears of laughter. That is if you return otherwise the illusion will live on. That is if I return otherwise the illusion will die. Nothing so far has changed you, not fire, not water, not pain. Twin statues we stand apart staring into the unknown of each other’s eyes. We are not dead. We are not alive. We are muntu.
The word muntu makes “no special difference between living people, dead people, children not yet born, and gods” (The Poisonwood Bible).
It’s not you. No really, it’s not you. It’s not you; it’s me. If you knew about me you wouldn’t blame yourself. You wouldn’t expect so little for me. You’d find someone better: lesser. You’d be sad for me knowing that I’ll never be happy, that there will always be something more than you. If you knew me you wouldn’t try. You wouldn’t have to. You would know that it’s not you. It’s not you.
Could change you, but don’t think I will.
Fate brought us together. We tore us apart.