It is hard to believe your own eyes sometimes. What mystery you once saw in this woman has turned devilish with deeper understanding, and then, like all things demonic, vanished in the light of confrontation, leaving a hollow in your heart that hardens you against all things before you, ready to set sail again. Ready to sing in the night with only the waves and insects reflecting. Your eyes could see nothing beyond your desire, and once again you were led like a child into delusion. So enwrapped in the shroud of solitude like jalapenos in a burrito you dug a cave between your ribs to the place where the wind sounds beneath the trees and the light sifts evergreen across the sea bottom like bony ghost fingers and your knowledge of self is contained within a stillness cool and clear. And here is a world she could not imagine and she is gone now in the way the shore is gone. A paradigm left behind, named and defined as memory. Yes, there is always something to be missed. Pieces of yourself that drop away into time to shine outwards through the darkness into some alien nightsky, forming patterns that can be functional as points of reference as the unknown is further plumbed. All skin that is shed can be fed to the flame.
Trust not in the eyes. Trust in the heart that creates.