THE DEAL IS FRAGILE, BUT BINDING

The deal is fragile, but binding. There is not a day that goes by when you don't think, when you don't bleed. You can strike your cheek with fist and hand, you can lay down salt and sulphur, you can hobble on legs of strain and steel, but the deal still stands and your time is always limited. The rucksack lies abandoned in the woods. A book lies buried in the pockets. In that book is the note to him. It tells him that you are young and need to see more of the world than just him. You have understandings with others, you have a new name, a new tentative direction, you are a woman who needs a new him. The old him will call you a witch, a heartless bitch, but you have a deal, and the deal is fragile, but forever binding. Sad eyes haunt the countdown, life ticks away in spasms of moments. With twists and turns, life drifts further and further away from the dreams you had, the dreams you thought you wanted. So where is the job, and where is the car? Where is the house, and where are the friends? Where is the grocery list, and where are the smiles? You stand on twisted stumps in the middle of the woods, the rucksack lies neat and tidy at your feet. The book is there, and so is the note. You smile and lay your hand across your cheek: "I love you" you whisper, and you do. You walk further into the woods, the rucksack abandoned. You have your deal, and the deal is fragile, but it is binding, so you go with that.