Gone. Define that for me. When you leave my bed and take a bath, are you gone? When all I have is the warmth of your impression. Your scent. The spoor of the hunt. My hair combed of your fingers natural in the shine of morning light. Do I not hold you then in the cup of my anticipation? And now, do I not remember your words, in the snow, that frosted promissory, breath of an angel, you'd prepare the way and wait, however long, you'd wait. To the bath or to the heavens, tell me, what is gone when my cup is full.__________
In the end, we all go. Eighty years or eight. Either way, have we lived. Have we lived.
6 comments:
very engaging. and so very true. does anyone we ever connect with intimately, be it physical or emotional or spiritual, ever actual 'leave'? I'm thinking that there's some sort of indelible footprint left of them on our psyche (whether we want them to be or not! LOL)
Grace, I'd like to think not. I'd like to believe that as long as the memory remains, they are a part of us as much as a finger or arm or anything else we consider a part of our being. Mwah!
They, those who enter, touch us, remain with us, in us, and become part of our being. We are never without them.
Beautiful...
S., I'd hug you right now if I could only I'm afraid my hug would be paid in afternoon and perhaps evening too. A small price I think. :-)
Dazzled by the wonder of you.
As though the soul of reader were the keys before you, your fingers printing with every touch. Beauty such as this once seen, once known as irrevocable, as incorporated, as the very essence (subject) of this phenomenal composition.
Your comment reminds me of Trevor's short story The Dancing-Master's Music. I can think of no finer compliment to give you. Thank you my dear Sweetest. :-)
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