01-04-2019, 09:41 PM
cut me up, honey and make me the lover you wanted
How long have you been standing here, little translucent one? Are your knees aching? Are you swaying with the weight of waiting? Has your heartbeat stilled along with the rustling of the long-gone leaves? There are no crowds now - no shiver of souls, no loquacious laughs or humming hymns. It is quiet, it is still, it is the blanket of winter being thrown over your skull. (Can you breathe? Do you panic? Is the weight of silence over your aura too much to bear?) Everything has been swallowed now – can you tell? Have you noticed the sweep of shadow over those now-barren trees? You are in the belly of the best – in the heart of the reaching trees, breathing the too-sharp air of the lungs of winter, tasting the metallic tang that the air now holds.
Do you feel him before he comes? Is the peace you created a fallacy of full of fault lines? (Perhaps it was just a look of yours– an attempt to show the world that you are not a wisp of woman, that you are collected and calm; an altogether being who is quite alright in the depth of these woods. Do you feel the ripple of the world rasped open? Do you feel Beqanna and Her gasp of no as he steps back into her terra again? Or are you simply at peace in this moment – obvious to the ominous about to unfold?
No, my little luminous lady- time was never yours to hold. Will you scramble to grasp those satin strings of seconds, North? Will you open your eyes to panic in the past that has been, the moments that have passed while your eyes have ben closed? Will you mull the month that has coalesced into now?
There are too many questions, where there should be none. And yet, there is one more:
“What are you waiting for?” He wills (but does not pry open) your eyes to see. He wants you to see. He wants you to simmer in the seconds that have slipped away – it is winter now, no longer a land of low-lying leaves, but a land preparing for flakes to fall. What have you missed? For what were you waiting?
eight