Remember that day when I sat wringing my hair like some garment soaked from a hand washing rinse? But it was dry and there was a rush of blood to my cheeks, as though I’d been in the sun too long. Same summer baby with a glow like the day I was born. Held in the arms of a man who’d walk away. Pictures remind us what my body can no longer feel. But it isn’t a story about that… this one comes a bit later. I spoke in the tongues of men and of angels and I had love. I forgot you’d changed to the new economy… where words hold their value like 3rd world currency. Like domestic cars. Nevertheless, I had the fever. A girl from the old world… from the old country… ripe with the scent of lilies from the valley… hands soft with the dew of tears. Bathed in milk and honey on my tongue… but eyes adjusting from the dark. Remember the days before they made love some over the counter thing? Before it was dumbed down to a generic? I forget I speak a different language and much of the time I’m lost in translation. And the real meaning isn’t heard, isn’t felt, isn’t seen, tasted or touched in the beds where their bodies don’t rest. Some peace whispers in my blood like the sound of water in a stream. Heart beats make it audible to their deafened ears. He put his ear to my heart and listened… and I watched his body still and quiet down like a baby falling asleep. Lungs expand. Breathing deepened.
And what on earth will you do with it when all you wanted falls into your shaky dirty hands? I’ve gone, dear one. I’ve simply up and gone.
A couple of nights ago, I walked into that room bathed in white. The one in the strange house by the significant trees. You kept apologizing. Kept saturating my face with kisses and ‘sorry’s. Kept begging my eyes to receive you, but they were focused on the door. I couldn’t hear you. I didn’t even recognize your face. It’s so like me to just give in… I accepted your apologies and your lines of regret drawn in the sand were washed away by my seas of acceptance. And you begged me to hurry back. I can’t go back to that place of jeopardy. Remember the old days when love was actually free? Before we started paying for it with our lives and our money and our bodies? Before it was something packaged and sold and marketed by fear? Before it was something you could teach and learn how to keep. Before we erased the definition and filled in whatever we pleased? When it had the weight of old covenants and was respected like kings. When it was a land of adventure shrouded in mystery to be enjoyed. When it was as strong as death and written upon hearts as seals and indelible marks on arms. Held fast in the undulating tides of life and movements of emotion. Some of us still have it like diamonds in our eyes. Like stars singing out of a black velvet sky. Some of us refuse to bleed it from our veins… That room was ours, in that strange house is in the city without walls. We were leaving trails of stories as legacies. And we’ve wept with the broken and let our wounds help heal. And I’m sorry for your heart that doesn’t understand. That shuts me out with jagged stone walls. I’ll return to your heart and make it my home, when you find me.
Until then, I’ve gone, dear one. I’ve simply up and gone.