Foresan et haec
Dust on the windowsill again, reclaimed from things forgotten. As the door opens, the sun sets and you walk in with turtles in your eyes full enough to make your expression expressionless.
“It’s nothing,” you say, “the hurting itself— it’s the ceaselessness, the way it’s so heavy how pain only ends by more pain.” Your eyes stand beyond crying, their tears dried themselves.
No words could equal it, not to you. I’m powerless, like a sun forced to set against its will. Who could admire that?
If I could turn words into relief you wouldn’t remember it, and besides I can’t—so awful a solace it is to pretend there is a solace. So I say, so I say.
I look back to the window, purpling now with the evening’s tears, with the early stars that slip because they cannot control themselves— and someday, maybe, we’ll learn to smile at days like these.
Logan Ellis is a student at the University of Tulsa, Oklahoma.