Love letter # 550
So here we are on the brink of remembering. Serene progress interrupted. The flutter of ancient butterflies. The nausea of wondering. The waves of your passing.
I am leaning, not falling – but enough to sense the up-rushing impact. The rupture. A fresh, hairline break in a heart long stilled. As though a spring storm were swirling around me. Giddying nectar all about.
Yet I am glad for this disruption. It keeps me honest and lets me know that I am not so far removed from the beautiful vulnerability of caring. Though I still wake alone, I rise today in the vicinity of your affection; which for now, is near enough.