Post Lunch Anger

[This was written last week...I don't remember what day]

He moves his muscles in random, graceful directions. Pulling and pushing to extremes while his stomache attempts digestion of the lead weight now present within. Paing crashes against the canvas of a conversation, marking it with indiscernable figures of emotion. Red overtakes. Soaking deep into the woven fabric forming the rest of his day, or at least the next several hours. Work will not be as it was previous to this tension. An opportunity to amend will not present itself for what now seems like days.

You have to go now.

As if my intillect and alertness, generally more keen, were less aware. As if my decision to remain had been overlooked or neglected, or worse: Traded. My attempts to grasp the last bits of a fleeting smile, in hopes of rebuilding before the conclusion of this moment, the only of its kind, thwarted by five words and one punctuational end piece.

Hold on with me instead!

My strength subdued by such a seemingly insignificant grouping of words. A papercut of a sentence! My ice cream pushed out of the cone and onto the ground below. A saddened and withdrawn state I now find myself in. Or is it that I'm choosing to hold back because the line between master and tyrant has become blurred?

Oh, my dear, sweet Jesus! Show me where to step. Give my feet direction and my legs the strength to move them.