The morning shoots through a .25acp caliber. I am dodging phone calls and incoming faxes, determined to protect my terrain. My world is small and yet the target of cognitive dissonance here is living life single again. Work, for what it was once, has lost against the emptiness, that void once filled to produce The best of lifes entanglements. I suppose its the thing we do for better or worse. Without license or certification, the consummation of man and work remains until death do us part.
My coffee is cold. I dont know how to let you go. I think I am doing ok, I think I am, maybe?
There are 98 dead so far from Ivan. The verbose storm without ultimatums, it is no kindred of the seas born unto the seas. It is the ravishing of boundaries and the cannibalism of serene infant waves. I had looked to those waves during soul contemplations. Endearing my thoughts to the waters contraction in its renewal of birth, I had found solitude and company both. And now, discontent with images...discontent with work, discontent with this sadness.
Mom?
Yes child.
Do you believe in God?
Yes I do honey.
What is he like?
He is like... He is...like none of us.
I remember the touch of heaven in our love...the light of morning in your eyes, sustaining the awaking from my dreams. Lovers love like this, paupers of self will. Your gentle fingers feathered my back and gave my body wings. I, in my love, would sojourn to the skies soaring through the expansion of our worlds. We thought it would be forever didnt we? Lovers love like this, and age again within the singleness of our own soul. Ive grown but into sorrow for what is lost; the pain matures. Time travels slowly. The kiss on my lips not even faded to those who would notice my stumbling for words. Without romancing this grief, I render my tears to it as if watering the bud of healing. I am only a woman and I break too, I falter and wane in strength as the tides come. Yet I am extant.
I am naked within this shell enduring these mornings demands like intrusions. All this damn work...
Another call...pounds like a cement drill 2 feet away. The sun is veering no longer accolading comer shadows in the room. When the light hits my eyes, will it diminish you as my pupils contracts? How does love do so like this? How many storms, wars, deaths of love will beget the orphaned? My lover of the past, I will no longer call you my beloved. I release myself as a widow to glean the fields in what remains. This is my work now. Should this have not been the work all along? As surely as the dawn rips the night and day apart, we rode that sun on summers back. I believe now the moon was only a tear glistening for our ignorance. Our words have now dried between us, no longer to be recalled like the constellations to memory. Like some story to be read, our love has closed in chapter. Paperwork, filing...
I answer a call out of need for distraction.
Yes that can be done, sure. Fax me the itinerary and I will have an answer for you tomorrow. Thank you, yes... goodbye.
Tomorrow... will it flee from today as if to run from the known? When my memory serves me well I shed of my royal robe and seat. Love was found outside, on cobble streets in the merriment of good will. We possessed only what we had to give. And things given were indeed a gift. Now we call it baggage... all that another cannot fill. The hands that reached to give clasped to take.
This day has risen with my child lifted to questions again.
Mom?
Yes honey?
How is God different?
Well honey... He never changes.
My coffee is cold. I dont know how to let you go. I think I am doing ok, I think I am, maybe?
There are 98 dead so far from Ivan. The verbose storm without ultimatums, it is no kindred of the seas born unto the seas. It is the ravishing of boundaries and the cannibalism of serene infant waves. I had looked to those waves during soul contemplations. Endearing my thoughts to the waters contraction in its renewal of birth, I had found solitude and company both. And now, discontent with images...discontent with work, discontent with this sadness.
Mom?
Yes child.
Do you believe in God?
Yes I do honey.
What is he like?
He is like... He is...like none of us.
I remember the touch of heaven in our love...the light of morning in your eyes, sustaining the awaking from my dreams. Lovers love like this, paupers of self will. Your gentle fingers feathered my back and gave my body wings. I, in my love, would sojourn to the skies soaring through the expansion of our worlds. We thought it would be forever didnt we? Lovers love like this, and age again within the singleness of our own soul. Ive grown but into sorrow for what is lost; the pain matures. Time travels slowly. The kiss on my lips not even faded to those who would notice my stumbling for words. Without romancing this grief, I render my tears to it as if watering the bud of healing. I am only a woman and I break too, I falter and wane in strength as the tides come. Yet I am extant.
I am naked within this shell enduring these mornings demands like intrusions. All this damn work...
Another call...pounds like a cement drill 2 feet away. The sun is veering no longer accolading comer shadows in the room. When the light hits my eyes, will it diminish you as my pupils contracts? How does love do so like this? How many storms, wars, deaths of love will beget the orphaned? My lover of the past, I will no longer call you my beloved. I release myself as a widow to glean the fields in what remains. This is my work now. Should this have not been the work all along? As surely as the dawn rips the night and day apart, we rode that sun on summers back. I believe now the moon was only a tear glistening for our ignorance. Our words have now dried between us, no longer to be recalled like the constellations to memory. Like some story to be read, our love has closed in chapter. Paperwork, filing...
I answer a call out of need for distraction.
Yes that can be done, sure. Fax me the itinerary and I will have an answer for you tomorrow. Thank you, yes... goodbye.
Tomorrow... will it flee from today as if to run from the known? When my memory serves me well I shed of my royal robe and seat. Love was found outside, on cobble streets in the merriment of good will. We possessed only what we had to give. And things given were indeed a gift. Now we call it baggage... all that another cannot fill. The hands that reached to give clasped to take.
This day has risen with my child lifted to questions again.
Mom?
Yes honey?
How is God different?
Well honey... He never changes.
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