every conversation ends the same

in the end we find we write because we must. nothing good comes of it. the words are repeats. the phrases hackneyed. but on it goes. this becomes something else now. a not-confession. the hacking together of bodies spliced by time. we eat our own flesh. all ways there will be new ways of saying old things. all ways we will come here to watch the sea, hear the beach shift, pebble over pebble, a life-sized cabasa. empty bottles of long drunk wine, the memories of what we once were.