The things that can't be erased sustain us. We pretend to forget but the memories return like wine stains on a carpet. They are in the meat of us. They are like bruising and we imagine that time will fade the livid colour and perhaps it will. Time eases everything from acute to a muted sepia.
I can't imagine that passion will withstand this erosion, but this is the premise that I will begin from. Maybe it is not the specific passion itself, but the idea of passion that is so long lived. We come to this point and there will be a juncture. The intensity of it is about timing, circumstance. I cannot bring myself to call it love. But it lodges physically. It is a disease that settles into our bones, making our legs shake. Eventually we will be worn away by it, but for now it is molten. It pulls focus. A veneer of normality is brittle. This thing will crack it. Passion spilled out all over the place. Like blood. Like ink from that squid I once caught in the night. Noticing the stain of it, only later, in the morning, when the light had come around once more.