Troubled by the rising tides of wise, the pull at the intersection where we fall forward or recoil is an involuntary moment we attribute to survival. There’s a reason why heartaches are described with words of physical pain. They are accurate responses, no nuance of soothing comfort, no distance between breaking and stone cold.
Look around then, beyond the center stage of the cleaving, on the other side of this suffering statue begging to be taken from the pedestal. See the clay, already softened and remembering a shape it had once taken? She still believes in the emergence of curve, and line and cast, knows she was once held, warmed as firm hands cupped the mud and the spinner’s tears flooded the base and his breath furiously worked her.
There’s time when these lovers were melded. When the artist’s eye called his muse into the light. There was a time when these two had no blood mixed in the palettes of our canvas, when each chiseled a life out of sleeping alone.
Indeed, both were once masters of the great un- making, stoic barbs thrown in wordless, hardened thrusts.
Yet we can sleep now, with those colors deeply stained into our skin. Now, find we are still able to forge a shared story of laughter, dance with tempting banter, make our own way out of histories winnowed through hollowed bone.
And in the dawn of the day, we fall into good graces, reaching into next lives, making new places for softness and longing, for the re-creating of now, the letting go, wisely, of then.
I’ve never forgotten you, just burrowed your songs with your scent, into the back of my soul.