he beginnings are always there, forgotten and buried under the weight of our lives. Truths have been bruised by beaten insecurities. But buried beneath the depth of these riddles that we tie ourselves in, the simplicity of the way we began cuts sharp scores into the savage battleground.
As we teeter; Jenga-like totems of our former selves; reminders flood cauterised caches. Photocopies of what we were, what I was, what this was. Like a scene in the films where the reflection filled-mirror cracks, revealing the metaphorical tortured soul of the longing protagonist. We are at a turning point. The denouement. The third act.
Saviours need flashbacks. Remembering the start prevents the end. Rewinding the pain and the lies through the passion and the bodies pressed tight slow-kissed tender muscles flexed and intertwined. Something to cling to. Something to hold.
Rewinding. Rewinding to stolen moments and hidden feelings, but a different kind to now. Rewinding away from stolen feelings and hidden moments. Back to propped-up pillow-talk. To the soft-touch seconds where anger never entered the frame. Pulling the tape back into order. Resetting our fate. Reclaiming the narrative.
Peter Wyn Mosey is a full-time writer living in Llanelli, South Wales, with his wife, dog, and two cats. He provides content and ghostwriting across a wide variety of niches. He has written and performed comedy at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and has featured on Queen Mobs Tea House, and Robot Butt. He can be found at https://peterwynmosey.com/
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