to herself perhaps, to comfort the instability she sits in
daily.
It speaks out nightly, at that all familiar 3am hour,
bewitched as it so seems, when all spirits unite
and her line to God is direct, free of static.
Those words didn’t fall from grace. A prayer, perhaps, to no one in particular
or across the big pond to her children – she feels the
connections – the threadbare cord that still binds
the permanence of love.
She so boldly assumes; no –
feels, as it stretches across the miles that separate.
So much has changed.
To grasp it at this unencumbered hour, hold it with love as it moves
through,
like a transient visitor, one who leaves profound change
within the turbulence
while traversing through the muck that has been kicked up in
the process;
pondering this is futile at this hour.
I love you, she
speaks at quiet moments, faintly audible, a soft hymn that coats the
disruption,
smooths the ride, softens the jagged edges that ripped through
her heart as she shared a Meritage, chosen just for her palette, as she sat at
the bar. She always lets him choose
it. She let go of the banal,
put forth no effort, allowing the red to coat her tongue and
linger.
I love you, she
says to that which holds no place worth considering. Holding on is impracticle.
The wine carries the pointlessness she feels in palatable
gulps; she savors the last sips as the triviality slips away. I love
you, she must say to the empty vessel, avoiding the temptation to ruminate,
sitting in the expanse as it spreads through her, this
liquid, warm and shapeless.
I love you, she
welcomes no one, no thing in particular, without question or expectation.
Filled. Because that
is all she can do.
Posts
