Somehow the absence always makes the heart seem weaker. How a day missed can make one assume that beauty now empty, removed and displaced. It seems it’s been weeks, both since he saw her or introduced himself; years since he first absorbed that warm embrace, as if he’s praying for a hug just for old time’s sake.
He can only wake up alone so many times, so many more late evenings and early morns before something grows, or dies, or ages beyond memory. In all this quest for sempiternal existence, to continue rolling in that eternal wheel and hay bale of yearning. They tell him it’s only the rain and the stain of those olden pains, that he’s just tired and crazed in the mind. He wishes he could be silent, that the times didn’t propel his guessing, his hopeless wanderings.
But I hope he finds it, whatever it is he’s been rambling about, anxiously sweating with. I wish the pain didn’t help so much, the emptiness didn’t restore with such grace. I hate that she knows, that he has to ascend that hill in fluorescent effervescent quilts to cry for shelter, and warmth and the lupine. If resistance didn’t fail, if only guilt was painless and straightforward to ascertain, it would be better or seem as such.
There is only so much he can do before it’s gone, before the drain empties and the flag quits wavering and is silenced. Each string is forever tuned to remain quiet, atleast enough to cool his brow and lessen life’s reverse. Maybe he’ll stand up for his one chance; maybe he’ll stand up for love. We get no second chance in this life, but if it’s love he will know.
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