These scabs are healing into itchy discomfort. I scratch them off with frequency. I don't mean to. My body moves separately from thoughts of healing with intention to what is familiar and feels good. Lies. My self moves into ways that feel. Good or bad, I must feel this thing that makes me wonder if I might have wrecked him just as beautifully as he has altered me. I think of him in kindness and sometimes in echoed sorrows from misguided angst. I've let go of the rage and at times it will surprise me with a visit or because it is no longer around to help me feel. When the rage is gone, thoughts dance in nostalgia and I am bereaved in longing and glowing embers of memories and unfulfilled dreams. Early morning birdsong wakes me and pulls my thoughts out of my control into a movie screen of memory and in predawn silence there is no control in child song distractions. In the glowing light of gentleness before the onslaught of life's demands, there is kindness and wonder and no way to let go.