How many times can you say, announce rather, that you are back?

How many times do you want to cross that river before admitting that you will never have it back? How many times do you claim to have crossed it? How many times will you need to do it again?

Cross it. Cross it now. See it all creep back in. No matter the perilous jump. The bottomless dive. The strength in your arms. Oh, your very rugged soul. It will matter not. For that river will not greet you again.

The ink does not flow back into the pen. It drools, it paints, it stains, it blackens, but it does not go back.

Oh God, help me not search for that river again. For it is black with sorrow that I wish not to drink. Oh, save me from the violence that stalks behind my thoughts. Wish me not regrets, but memories, for I will make them again and again until nothing can be sown in this barren field of faded ink.

Drowned, I will forever gasp. Refusing to stop swallowing. Let it soak me. Drenched, I feel no thirst.