Perhaps you just pour the gasoline, toss the match, watch it all burn up in the tallest most beautiful flames. The old life, the old you, the previousness of so much of what you are still holding close to your timid chest. As the clock ticks on well past a time when time should have been up, I wash my face and brush my teeth. There is blood but only a little. There are scars but just a few. I cover them with cream that smells of lilac and lillies of the valley. My grandmother had lillies of the valley growing all the way down along the chain-linked fence which lined her driveway. She never drove a single day in all her life. Never needed to. She died too old and too young and had every single one of her real teeth when she passed on through.
As the minutes I’ll never get back fall away down the drain like shriveled skin cells, and dew drops which glisten in the foggy heat of a spring morning somehow burst forth against the morning light on the other side of this aching, weepstained earth, there are feelings inside of me I have never felt before. Mmm no that isn’t quite it. I have had these feelings before, of potential, of something secret and ancient just about to begin, but I took my hands and I smothered them so they couldn’t breathe. The difference now is not the feelings but the way I move around them. Toward them. Slow and steady and deliberate. When you stop threatening to kill them off, it turns out, they put down their weapons, too.