wave

I feel as if there’s this constant backstepping and waving, a retreating goodbye.  And it seems as if I’ll keep walking and going back until I hit the wall behind me.  It’s like I wave so absent mindedly that I back up without seeing I’ve finished the room.

And if I stood there, waving from the room’s edge, I’d relax against the wall, maybe finally relax.

But, tonight as I write this, I’m driving on the snow that reflects my car’s approach.  The snow is a million diamonds, or the dust of a busted star or the cracked crystals of a broken sky.  Why this reminds me of the leaving wave that I keep repeating is beyond me.

Maybe it’s because, if I stopped driving, the snow would cover me, douse the flames of my headlights and make patterns on me. Maybe it’s the same with saying goodbye.  Some much out from which a girl should dig.