It Lasts Forever and Then It's Over

by Anne de Marcken

Maybe we kill the living to get at their pain. Or our own.

Maybe, I say to myself or to the crow, maybe that end, the end you can only see after it is too late, maybe that end is what makes a beginning what it is.

I go west because west is where I remember you.

How small or altered or distant must a part of us be before it stops being a part of us? Does it ever?

I am trying to remember or to see. The space between me and me is you. This is a mystery.