What hope is this that brings no joy to the heart?
What longing is this that devours possibility and spits out its bones for fortune tellers to roll around in their bowls while they spew forth the imagined so that it may become reality?
Who knows me if I do not?
Who stands up for me when I can not?
Who holds my hand when mine is not enough?
Why should I live on the creation and memory of moments to satisfy needs that are not met?
These are the tools of a child, now tools of man and woman... tools utilized so, maybe for a moment, she can once again know what it is like for him to brush her hair and kiss her on the forehead before sleep, or so, he may know what it is like to want to brush her hair and kiss her on the forehead before curling up with her in his arms.
What love is this that brings such hope that even after it is gone it still lives?
No comments:
Post a Comment