By Dave Nash
Our separation spreads out,
our row sleeps over,
the threads of our argument tear off and turn up everywhere.
Pain won’t leave, it finds a room in me.
Rain drenches the mountain,
the cloud splitter, rainmaker mountain
inhabitable, inaccessible.
An offshoot blows across my face.
How something so felt could become an artifact
I won’t accept.
We lived in the space between lightning and thunder
that struck me miles
of infinity.
Our younger selves would be terrified blind.
Our knowing selves would let it pass detached.
But we were pulled by the updraft,
heat turned to fuel for the storm,
we rose a thunderhead.
Until we burst.
Oblivion,
this space that we fell into.
Apart,
moving towards the forest of
gusty moods on autumn nights.
The peak and fall.
I wanted resolution
to find it on the mountain
or absorb it like unrelenting rain,
but I had to go.
About the author: Dave Nash writes on Northeast Regional trains.
Dave is the Nonfiction Editor at Five South Magazine. His work appears in
places like South Florida Poetry Journal, Bulb Culture Collective, Jake, and
The Hooghly Review. You can follow him @davenashlit1.
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