Stormy weather of the heart. Admittedly, maybe not as fierce as the winds that blow across the Great Lakes, but fierce enough, making me wistful for the stillness of heartaches past.
I'm only fooling myself, of course. It only seems still because it's long ago. Safe. That sharp blade of longing now dull.
Still, I remember. There are certain nights when the intensity of hidden emotion etches a map onto your bones. I slide into the groove of discomforting comfort. It's all that I have left of those old feelings now. Parking lots. Stairwells. Memories of a scent caught unexpectedly around a corner.
Soon, my bones will carry a new map. Even as I lurch toward old age, the graver of desire is still fiercely sharp. Maps of dreams and unforgotten hopes, maps of places you will never know.
