Smoke that curls and intertwines, melds around raindrops, reaches out like searching hands.
I haven’t written about guilt.
The overwhelming sense of shame and my long-term struggle with hubris would be the main perpetrators of that.
It’s the excuses over reason, the piled up regrets, the dark that keeps the wisps hidden.
Wisps that are feelings that are “later”s. Nostalgia, melancholy, regret, guilt.
They’re searching hands.
Hands that need to be held.