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5:09 PM
One more night finds two AM alone. Eyes close tight as the theater of the mind spins to life. Another night, another place, another bed--none feel of home.
I remember, now, asking--maybe--sardonically they'd reply, "time heals all wounds", they said, though they never meant to lie.
They don't mention when healing means no more than scars, etching burning muscle deep, changing the way you move, the way you breathe, the way you are.
They never meant to lie, I've said, though they rarely have the choice. When the question is lacking as much meaning as it is lacking voice.
When you ask when it'll heal, you're asking when you'll again be made whole, but the truth they cannot tell you is some never heal; some not at all.
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