i keep looking for your brief blurry outline through the front door glass
hurrying ahead to be first arrived, for hugs, smiles, bringing little gifts, giving the kitchen sink a "proper"clean
tea and talks and walks
your little shape, too small to be hugged too hard
i keep thinking of you in charity shops
this and that you'd like, but would it fit you now?
our history could be traced through our charity shopping
i keep wanting you
i keep listening for the sound of you
but i'm not sure i remember your voice
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spring's painful loveliness splinters the dry sticky dark softly insinuates betwixt the cracks of winter charming its forceful gentlenes... -
it has a rhythm and pattern all its own grief hidden and unpredictable it catches offbalance shifts pebbles underfoot transforms the landsca... -
We'd known it was the last time though no one said this task you'd set upon with borrowed help in borrowed hours and days determined...
2 comments:
strange how the voice is the first part to migrate to the deeper levels of consciousness - no longer in the outer ear.
somewhere else inside
I have no idea why it is so.
That story is haunting because it's so universal. Well done.
(Came here from Akelamalu's blog)
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