5.8

I still think on Scarmarella, repeat her last words in my sleep. She steals the seconds without my other, when I am lonely, confused, and cheap. (I think--I know--I will not tell you, I'll brush it off as nothing more) Let me tell you of Scarmarella, blackest heart I know: a girl who shards the pots she loves and finds time to make more. I was her pot, once, broken on her floor. I waited there, alone with others for her foot to fall and crush my corners. I leave her memory with mortar seeping from my ears. Repaired.

Oh, the nights we used to spend! We were candy shoppers then, children with our pockets bulging. And when we, candy-gorged, crawled into the playhouse, ringing laughter, you were taffy then to me. Sweet and soft, I loved you dearly, more than even I could know. "Oh," you whisper, "I would live here--" in this place, with me? With me? With me!? I bit off more than I could chew, for you, giggle. I can pull from you like taffy turners a truth a truth a truth until I learn of you in increments I cut and package cellophane and tape. Those truths I treasure, always, how you'll live in future times. But now on opening the package, I see the all is me, unmade. Your truths are lonely, not together. Your truths are future, not with me.

Scarmarella mine, you're mine no longer. I let you float in nether realms, the darkest of my heart's remember. I hate you. Just leave me alone.

(we day again)