it could not have been that what they often call the usual fluttery sort- of butterfly feeling that warmly settles on the heart. today should be fleeting. when the day ends, so goes everything that it brought and developed to set with it. not settle. to set out. to fly away. many miles away. many light years away.
this year seems no different. i cannot remember what last year's offered. for sure, it had the same commercialized redness. the same cramped establishments. the same day-induced magnetism that compelled skin to touch skin, lips to seal lips, and eyes to drown eyes.
today, you thought of dying, the manner of dying, the last moments before the consciousness slips into what you may never know. you were distracted by the hovering of a small mosquito and you thought of mosquito-consciousness, its hovering-consciousness, and the last moments before it slips into its death form. you thought of the noisy birds outside your office windows, how they teasingly frolic and play, in a threesome exchange. you thought of your noodle soup, the bundled-up noodles in a sense of frantic shyness, swimming, more like dancing in a steamy flavorful bowlful womb. you thought of the eerie late afternoon orange darkness of your building floor, the emptiness haunts, the silence wants, and you thought about the ending day. it must not have been that what they often call the usual fluttery sort of butterfly feeling that warmly settles on the heart when we exchanged words, brotherly and sisterly as they were, in as most caring as a day like any other can offer. this year seems no different. like any other day, there is longing.