Beloved. Here we are again. We’re tangled in the empire of time by a promise that grows ever more resilient as I think of you. A promise that has lived only in the freedom of silence, in that safe space where the delicate threads of resemblance between us stir longing. That is, until now.
As I search clumsily for words, I wonder if our commitment is too timid to survive the coarseness of articulation. Perhaps it belongs alone, buried in our fears that stand like lonely sentinels guarding tired, old chickens in a relentless vigil. Chickens, just to make you laugh. But as you smile, does your mind also swell with thoughts of fear’s grim power? It wears us down if we let it until cowardice begets nothingness.
When we first met, you spoke at length of something, but all I remember was the beginning of a story that sparkled in your eyes. It beckoned, drawing us into the path of fate that began at the foot of a bridge of twine we thought would bind us. There was no map to follow, only insistent hints of places that lay ahead, indulging but defying our imaginations. You would have followed me anywhere but somehow I was never more than your guest, leaving neither of us satisfied.
When exactly did the twine start to unravel? I don’t remember, but now, like you, I’m confused. So I’ve retreated inwardly to solitary places of defeat where a soft song sings of loneliness. Its sentimental harmonies, that for a moment make me whole, are so soothing and distracting for my gentle, weary soul. I still look to you for solace and you seem to do the same, though it’s often hard to tell as we push and pull away. We protect the fragile pieces that we collect and call ourselves but they’re so brittle, you could crush them with a stare. They’re cheap spectacles that shine, distracting us until we curve in on ourselves and feel content to splash about in shallow, muddy puddles.
I hope for better times ahead because we live in exile when we relate only at the points of poverty between us. Times when the misunderstandings, the disappointments, the hurtful words, don’t stick. They change nothing. Closer times, when even our noblest fictions recede. Where the kindness, the warmth, the understanding can change nothing. Never offering more than your promise to find me in the still, empty moments between breaths, where nothing intervenes. No memory, no purpose, no greed. Where all longing disappears and I can finally hear your voice. Then, we will inhabit the unspoken and know love.
I often will us to arrive here, hoping that our hearts will align, but for now my dreams whisper this: the path we have together is like water polishing stone, gently teaching, gently leading. We’re like two children bracing fearfully at the entrance to a cave, looking one upon the other squeezing hands, quietly loving, quietly saving, while the promise carries on.