Or for something to

I am stuck within a constant. An invariable. A waiting. Like a Migrant Hostel- radiating transience, yet stifling all movement. They casually clip the homing pigeons wings as the residency is claimed. Perhaps they only wanted to stay the night. Or the afternoon to see Uncle Petyr, and to remark haughtily on the journey home of how his face grows thin. The lines that approach the corners of his eyes are deeper. That "he looks tired." As much as Petyr, they are stuck in the constant. The wait in the heat.
Summer brings sweat and forced family gatherings. Competitions for affection. More sweat. Maybe a little cricket. And a waiting for it all to be over.



Or for something to

Sometimes, you find that you're seriously unhappy.

ALEC #2

It's awkwardly long eye contact. The kind that stays with you.

We were tying things down. I was getting rid of the space that seemed to have been left with me. Happy that I'd been allowed the opportunity, to be quite frank. I was climbing up the sides of my ship and tightening rope. [You preferred rope. More reliable. Steadfast. Tested.] We were saying nothing. Not that I can remember. Perhaps it was of no importance. Or implication. After a couple of mangled half hitches and reef knots that were convincing enough to tie down the cargo, I look across deck. You're staring. Not casually looking over, or past. Not glancing. No blinking. With an expression that I still can't place. It seemed distant. Or perhaps, lost. They're very different things.

Jono told me once that their difference [the difference between lost and distant] was the clincher here. The breaker. One has movement. Direction. Placement. There is a wholeness to it. Someone who is distant does not connect with someone who is lost. Lost is absence. Looking through things. Grasping. Clutching. Willing, but only reaching the penultima.

I am lost in my syllables. And in the deciphering of your [perhaps accidental] stare. You are just as distant as ever.