Intercourse With The Dead.

Broken promises... 

Words so full of possibility, without substance...they break over time in little increments.

Our bones, the brittle child-like sense of expectation, that finally snap with the realisation...

Twas all for naught.

the bitter memory we carry of the casual, careless utterances that sail triumphantly from the mouths of fools- flawed vessels on waves of empty passion that break on the shores of our vulnerability.

Like compound fractures- we can carry them around like nonsense memory.

The dull ache of the pain of a lost hope...

we carry around with us...

Words that once seemed like a new born infant, stagger on like zombies eternally, kept alive by our child like belief in them.

They can stunt our growth, and we walk eternal with the limp of bitter disappointment.

In time, if we hold onto these fractures long enough, we become conversant ourselves in the art of the broken promise. 

And others limbs we break in turn.

A world of staggering disability & disbelief.

We need to be so very careful that the language of the fractured expectation is not the only language we become conversant with. 

There are many languages out there.

Lies are one.  Truth another. 

Faith, peace and hope.

And if we must hold onto the bitter pain of the broken promise- & many among us MUST- then we would do well to ensure we do not break the most important promises of all. 

The ones we make with ourself.

To attempt to keep a promise with another without doing it for oneself- like trying to love another without first having self love- is like having intercourse with the dead.

Without their consent.  

Perverse.