My apartment is dark save for the candles splitting space throughout. The sorrowful ebb and flow of Gorecki’s Symphony No. 3 intertwines with the tiny flames which kick at the dark, and the chorus of lament makes love around me. The Cabernet is cool in my mouth.
This sea in which we tread so hopelessly is but a progression of begins and ends, of waves and wakes. (She told me to wait and I did.) When one wave crashes we drown ourselves in its grandeur, calling out as it recedes into the distance. Soon after it’s all just one sea.
I turn the wood beads around my wrist. I stare at the framed painting which hangs on the wall behind my screen. I question the ethics and the rationale of my choices. I feel the past step on the heels of my future. June lived and died and no one noticed but me. And now her ghost reappears, sprinkling snow down upon my fires. The pieces of her and our solstice I leave for you, in shades and mirrors; I stash them behind walls of leaves and moons and secret stones which topple when touched. But you don’t touch. Perhaps I should tell you it all. Maybe then you will care. Maybe then my words will reach ears and hearts. Maybe then.
Maybe then you will search, and think, and follow. Yes, I should reveal all so you skip along behind me, tracing the trail, crumb by crumb, of my confession.
But I do. I confess to my love, to flames in the dark.
My head tilts back over the arm of my couch and hangs in the cool dark air like an unlit chandelier. An aria of sorrow spins forth into the night. Snow falls beyond these walls and settles on the grass like solemnity onto my soul. I think of words to write, but latent boulders crumble to sand and slip from my mind, out my ears and into the air. I search the ground, stand tall and defiant at the shore, and do nothing but toss stones into the sea.