He’s not sure exactly when the conflict started. Truth be told, he’s not even sure if it’s over or not.
“Better safe than sorry” he always says, so he dug a foxhole.
And every morning he wakes up there and stretches. Not physically though. Just his imagination. Occasionally his expectations, when he screws up his courage. Usually it’s not just his courage he screws up though.
He tries to yawn but he could never pull that off with her, so why start now?
…So far away. Not physically. Just so far away.
……Fighting. Also not physically. More of a longing really.
……..Hurting. Physically? Of course not. He’ll concede that too is more of a longing.
……There are no bullets whizzing over his head and his dreams aren’t riddled with bayonets. Just memories. Memories, tortured metaphors and ghosts.
……….Haunted? Yep. That would be fair to say. Sometimes he has to work hard to convince himself that bombs would be worse.
His hand hovers over the page but the words don’t come (again). Casualties of an undeclared war. Casual ties that bind… tight. So tight they cut off his circulation. Socially full circling the drain.
So he sits in his foxhole feeling stubborn and forgotten and waits for it all to be over. Waiting for a whistle to blow, signaling it’s time to go a little over the top. To bravely charge forward… into the great unknown. Into the wide open future.
“The waiting really is the hardest part. Boy, Tom Petty sure knew what he was talking about. I sure miss him. And Bowie too. All three of them.”
He settles in for another long night.
Maybe those ties aren’t so causal after all.
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