The Invisible Him Allison Seay

We spent all day walking in circles around the pond watching fish pluck from the surface the bloated bread. I dreamed last night (all my life) of this not extraordinary day and like others sometimes will admit I did not know how much I loved until it was gone abruptly.

It is not that I think we can all live forever but that we should never die. There is a difference.

For example, it is the difference when the fog at dusk confuses what is pond and what is bank, confuses the moving from the still, confuses even where my sadness could be lost inside the crepuscular light. I am certain where it was inside him— the living tumor of sadness right in the liver.

If I concentrate I can almost see the impossible invisible him, see through the burial mound of grass and moss, through slate and soil, through roots and further down down to the blue veins down even to the vermillion border of his thin little lips, down to the internal (eternal) him, the despicable organs.

I say you were betrayed. And the whole pointless thing is never over: it is always a living death sure as I am now some things do last infinitely— it was love even when I did not have this voice to say it.

Allison Seay