I’ve found anticipation can be both dark and intense:

This feeling has a manner of working its way into my mind,

It slowly unravels the soft tissue of my hippocampus,

and then freezes my medulla–

and somewhere between the freezing and unfurling in the darkness of forgetting

Time looses its grip.

and the ripped seams

and worn paper

can be pasted together into any memory,

though the accuracy may be tainted from the

glue and faded pages

but I hold here a scrapbook, loosely bound, yet tightly woven

where the ink has faded

and the pictures are torn

and I could expect a reader to come away with either

a story of great triumph

or great tragedy

depending on their experiences with the mundane and miraculous.