There are men who simply never leave.
It never occurs to them. They stand in the eye of the storm for so long they become the eye. They will always be there, it is a quantum certainty, their resolve woven directly in their reality.
A friend disappears. Sometimes another. They leave on clouds of bleak or simply fade away. It does not matter, though, as a man reaches out his hand and plunges it into the maelstrom. Grab on, friend. Grab on.
Sometimes a hand claps his. It is usually a feminine hand.
The man pulls. Sometimes the hand lets go in fear of the eye, but he never will. Sometimes he pulls and draws the person into his calm existence.
“I’m sorry I went away,” her eyes will say.
The man will smile, for the wind apologizing to the rock for blowing is amusing to him.
Sometimes, her eyes are bittersweet.
The man will still smile.
Here, in the center, there is the now, never the past, only the future. Regrets are for the wind.