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BROKEN PIECES
Dear Winter, It happened four years ago that the earth shook beneath me. The first time it had ever done so in my, then, twenty five years. Now I am twenty nine and a little closer to a desire you helped cull from the pit of my belly; it now eclipses my stubborn will to be in love with love. Therefore, I am no longer bound by irrational lusts. No I don't kiss anymore; even licking stuffed blunt wrappers shut is something I no longer do, for fear that, as in the past, returning to that habit would steal from me what it did before - maybe more. Can you still feel my kisses? I don't think many have seen you cry. I felt the kind of helpless that brings on queasiness as you shared with me the broken pieces of your past. From the heart you spoke, and so shrouded in fear and desperation were your words that I, not knowing what else to do (and admittedly feeling overwhelmed by my own powerlessness) wrongfully attempted to heal the ruptures with kisses. So filled with love were they, that they took you captive again and again. I don't blame you; it isn't your fault that whenever we're too close we seem to catapult one another toward some undecipherable thing that sends a panic through us both. Many times we've been simultaneous impetuses for each other's growth and the revelation of purpose only to part, quickly and dramatically, as if running from opposite ends of a burning house. Now scattered embers are the only remnants of the love we built by revealing ourselves inch by inch. Even Adam and Eve felt ashamed being that naked. We've reached many an impasse these four years, and now I accept that we have reached the last. It saddens me to admit more hurting took place than healing, to know we both have extra wounds to tend. I forgive you. I've said so before, but this time I'm saying it for me, not in the hopes that it will spark something, make you want to create something with me that favors the old, yet is devoid of all the dysfunction. We were seasonal, only meant to fit for that small window of time when you were completely open to God using my hands to touch you. I'm not open to communicating, which doesn't matter because we're connected in that way that you mystically receive word of my thoughts: I remember you for a second; you send how-do-you-dos via text. But that's why I do not have to send you this letter. No. It will have to reach you by telepathy, carried interstate by invisible wafting air, because I can never again be near you, naked enough to share these thoughts. No, I will not use my mouth nor bear my skin. Again, |