In season

Maybe the moments can pass like sweet molasses. Slow and rich and sickly sweet. Perhaps they can coat my palette with an endless puckering, perhaps they can linger in the way that only pure things do.

I like this dance, I’d just never gotten the rhythm right. It’s just occurred to me, you can have all the time in the world, if you’d just slow down. And now I want that most of all. No need to move, no need to have anything more than what we do right now. Perhaps it’s all the same to want a million moments more, as they come.

And to accept them as they arrive, like weary guests along their traveling path. No human has ever encountered perfection, let alone in succession, and they wouldn’t know what to do with it if they had. Perhaps the greatest redemption of our silly race is that we don’t settle until we find a way to change our circumstances. Nothing in the world needs to be the matter. It’s but another achievable skip of our human heart.

It’s a melody broken down. A sunrise not urged over the hilltop. A stolen moment in a spring breeze. It’s a dissected fragment, just a morsel, once filed away. Reclaimed, just as it’s ripe for picking.

To think I used to squander them. To think I would’ve traded anything for it. And now all I can hope is for more aimless nights to saturate little hours with the brilliance of minutiae. Perhaps we need not exist outside these brief moments. Perhaps we always will.

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