I’m tentative these days.
Tentative from a lifetime of longing, from a point to point of hopes lost and in the losing I am diminished.
In the moments where life is lived I find the emptiness of long days stretching out into spaces I wish were as empty as they feel. Spaced equidistant from fulfillment and beauty I can see it on the horizon, stretching my fingers out to embrace it to hold onto its possibilities, to break free from this prison.
I reach out my hand hoping to be pulled up. Your hand rests gently on my head and in the touch hope blooms and I dare see future and joy, right up… until it pushes me back down. Freed from touch for so long that even that minute, that rebuke is desirable.
What history can I share but one of days sitting on the windowsill, looking from my perch into the vast known, alone, head resting on my knee, a sad song hushed over the patter of raindrops on stone.
Pelgris 