You saw it within me. Even admired it I think. But you didn’t how to hold it… and I didn’t know how to ask you to.
As the fog dissipated, the stone became clear and in writing it affirmed. Neither one wrong, one wanted solitude a little longer. It wasn’t for specific views, known feelings, or a different medium under their foot. It was the art of isolation they longed for, though there weren’t words for it, because it wasn’t a conscious thought then… it was the art of isolation and what it could unfold into if given the time.
The stone sits, the paths unwind into the wood… and maybe they go further still.
I’ve been so scared… because I had forgotten what it felt like to care. The numbness of not knowing, not remembering, though anemic, felt safer than to try and understand it again.
Ironically, this wasn’t as much for others… as it was for the person I hadn’t heard from in the longest. My self.
When whispers stay and sit on your ear. What does that mean? Are they different voices from every place you’ve been and from throughout time, or, if you listen very closely, is it the same voice? Unmoving. Is it your voice?
I wish I was there with you. I found your hand when we started into the woods. Held it tight. Held it dearly. But I didn’t know you were running to the fall. I couldn’t pull myself from planting the roses I thought were for us. When I looked up you were gone. I ran and ran, tears and branches wiping my face. I followed the small voice I heard in the wind, out to the other side. It was your’s… calling from the bottom of the basin. You had already jumped, not realizing the only way down for me was if I went with you. I wish I had been there. I wish.
Sometimes I still think I hear you down there.