Time Machine

I built a time machine so I could go back and say I’m sorry.  It took years, timing and patience, emergent yet formulaic.

But then I got trapped in a notion, the desire to remove the offense at onset, at the root; of wanting to make it completely go away.  Take it back to love, fix it, and stay.

I wish I could light up your face the way I did back in the day.  The way today you sometimes still light up mine, trying to rebuild and improve rapport, trust, between you and I. Faking, unspoken begging, worshiping, praying that you’ll fall back in time and when you return in kind.

I want to use the machine to go back to the days before. Before you knew I was as lost as you and that all the stories were true. That the solution was an illusion, my hands were tied too.

When it was primal, we were on, it was new.  Before you knew, splayed out wide before the rose-fingered gates that I, we, me, they had lied to you.

As anticipated, I pause, have paused and will pause.  I know to take time back would lead me down the same old path.  The one I’ve defaulted to time and time again, Mephisto and Faust, no ease, all attack.

Circumradiant stop. Light everywhere, enough to see the parade of time charade couldn’t hold. The spell couldn’t take/long/break down/fall apart.

The bright light of knowing the only truth I’ve known has been based on my life since the fall.  Since falling from or to grace, since being driven out of the garden, since being kin-ripped from all.

The life we’ve had while I’ve been trying to make it up to you is the only thing close to life I’ve ever had.  The repair has surpassed the breach. This peace demanded my fall, a sacrifice. 

Catch 23.  By hook and by crook the eldest jesters sing.  Do it any way, means necessary. But be of mind, to wipe away evil also wipes away the valor that would rise to meet it.

We cannot return to the care free days and gaze without distorting the very essence that makes us long for them.  I am sorry is all that remains.

It can’t change.  The blemish and the blame, the vision and the voice.  These are spirits material since matrimony.  Huzzah and Ashe.

Even though I am foolish, I am not foolish enough to try to ‘time machine’ them away.  And so the machine goes unused.

It is in the backyard, overgrown, lights hung once gone, on its way to forgotten science.  These notes and this schematic are the only keys made, for just in case days, just like these.

Out of, and all in, time.

© EschatonLife

This piece is included in Eden Bloom  Eschaton Life