new

not enough is said about the wonder that is falling out of love. no dizzy songs, no recognition from hallmark, no poetic twirl, swish or piroutte. why not, i wonder.

it can be just as intoxicating, just as conducive a spirit to stupid regrettable acts, just as awesomely new. the butterflies have moved from being trapped in your stomach to flying in between your fingers, in that mad giddy insect way of theirs. the ache eases up around your heart and surfaces on your soles, forcing you to walk, walk, walk. the acid of anger and tension drips off the eyebrows and dissipates in mid-rant. how nice to have your rage back.