The Season of the Perfect Storms

by HelluvaGirl

And then those other fantasies came.

I would have to shake them off in the middle of a day, in the middle of a conversation, a meal or a project. It would be a phrase in a song, a photograph, a fragrance or a random object, and I would yield to the association string, and I would get blissfully lost, and I’d be awoken by familiar sensations which I know the words for but never summoned them thinking of you.

Because we didn’t start in this world and it didn’t begin with this.

Yet I keep getting lost.

I guess this has to permeate me, too, as the season of perfect storms till I am purged, evened out and consonant with the emptiness holding me in its firm embrace.