When will I ever learn that I cannot write away someone who is a part of me? I cannot do this any more than I could breathe without lungs. I have lost count of the endless journals filled with memories of your eyes. Page upon page lubricated with the flow of my heart. Those eyes~ of which I will never gaze upon again but some nights they still haunt me in dreams. I know with certainty that you still reside in my bones. You formed layers around them making my flesh transparent. You were the exposer of my hidden. So much that surfaced to your hands. The ones waiting to hold the depths of me.
You are and ever still my endless string of prose. “You are the stillness, the fleeting. You are the slow burn of a good word flow.” The memories of us are my keepsakes. The ones buried in my hope chest. The ones I sift through on endless nights where nostalgia and I share the wine. Although I will never again kick up my feet and collapse into the sofa that love, I still feel you near me at times. Entangled in the magic that only you and I exude.
You are a beautiful mess, so much my equal aren’t you? You are in many ways my male reflection. You are a down home rhythm to my rhyme. If only our melody had played on a bit longer. At day’s break it is your form I sometimes reach for, sleepy-eyed, before I realize I am grasping for a ghost. At day’s end it is you that finds a way into my poetic prayers. I have found a cleansing through the wreckage that loss leaves in its wake. You have become something I no longer wish to ignore. We were a part of something grand if only for a while. A cherished sequence of fate that will always define parts of my being. I do not regret you. You are a part of my story.
So I will continue to scatter parts of you, parts of what was what is and what is to become, into my prose. I would be lying if I said the way you once looked at me will never find its way into the stories that I tell or the characters derived from our love. The aftermath of you no longer swallows me with sorrow but brings me to the floors of thankfulness. Thankful that I was given a taste of raw, a drink of real, a breath of kindred. Maybe you will be reading, listening. Maybe you will smile and be warmed, knowing you found your way out of the chasm of this heart and into a glorious sentiment.
From Amy’s blog. You can visit this post at http://www.amymarienoble.com/2015/04/29/a-glorious-sentiment/.