The blind side of the moon

Coming to terms with not turning back is pretending that forgetting is possible. I’ve always thought that is a cowardly thing to do. But then I found that there was no pulling myself out of this hole and crevice and endless blind stumbling without banning certain memories. Without denying access to the memory of your smell and your laugh and trying to hate you with all that I am. I will not resent you. I cannot erase you.
But I can hate you because once I loved you simply. Is it my fault that I cannot call it simple, that I cannot understand it anymore?

Is it my fault that foolishly it ever was?

But it’s fine.
The fire has settled in blue hot embers.
Lets skate on the rock turned cold
It’s fine.

I stop thinking, I stop wishing, and I bend myself on doing nothing but existing, making choices as I go, takings steps and choosing leaps, groping for the next sight.

Fuck it. The sounds are your voice when you used to look down and dance.
Fuck me. The bass is your arms closing around air and grasping for a chance.
Fuck you. The drums are the screams in your eyes.
Fuck this.
This is the blind side of the moon.

And you are nowhere to be found.