#travis cebula

Impetus: motive power: to away with this inclination

The need to move on vs. 

It's only November. It's only leaves crossing avenues in the wind.   I am lonely, and who wouldn't be? I've felt no caresses,   I haven't spoken to the sun for days.   ...In other words, winter. Its dead leaves are ready to burn. Aren't we all.

...let's talk about the things that haunt us. In other words, let's talk about the consequences.

I bury all the old regrets with you. I hold all those stark moments.   I hold the hands as they grow cold. Just like you asked.

I dig myself out every day. And it doesn't mean I'm not dead. It doesn't mean I've come to believe in handfuls of daisies tossed on a grave. It doesn't mean I believe what I've spoken, or heard, or I can get my head around a love letter.

I believe in blooming, how it comes from knowing dirt is your bed, even how it grows from rain and promises— even mine, with the darkness of their broken wings   looming.

I'm gone. The wind started singing to the sun. In other words, the wind started singing to me. Put another way, I'll meet you there.    ...In other words, if I'm not dead I must be numb. So if you come, you'll come alone, You'll come carrying a box full of promises. In other words, you'll come heavy.