The memories of them together feel like the brush strokes of an Impressionist’s art; dapples of color and emotion that pull to pieces when you look too close. Step away and memories sharpen from subconscious canvas, dreamlike views into a life that could gave been, that isn’t. The late night obedience to feed, the rocking chair singing to calm, the frantic dancing to urge sleep, the bathroom floor crying to purge, all those fresh brush strokes lose their color over time, each month hardening the craquelure, covering or chipping at yesterday with crowding new bliss. And that’s fine as those days were no masterpiece, helpless flailing at the walls and hours of losing hold on logic, consideration, slumber on beds and couches of worry, separation, division, rage and haphazard words flung into the still air of shaded rooms, carrying the scent of inebriated reason and sharpening like knives before impact, drawing blood, covering the whole picture in crimson hopes spilled as the palette grew tainted, the copper of anger flooding bright, easy years, like sunlight flitting through late autumn trees. They loved. They still love. Their grand art split into two wide new worlds resting on easels still coated with the drops of their nurture of each other, of you, but now the grand work of tomorrow inspiring each stroke, each line and contour. They remember as if it were a photograph, though. And forgiveness isn’t looking closer or stepping away, but the closing of wet eyes that see too well what was, what had to be forgotten.
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