Life Itself

There is calm in dependability There is comfort in intensity There is home in intimacy It's the in between in what is never said between us. It's in knowing that silence is understanding. Do you think about the same things? Do you wonder with the same immensity? When I am listening, While I giggle, While I chatter endlessly, Do you hear the slight pause? Do you notice the catch in my breath? Do you sense the moment when I am me? Are you simple, like your words, like your curious stories? Are you at ease, like the sea, like the chirping trees? Are you aware, of what it means, of what it conveys? Are you deliberate, in the impact, in the way you move me? There is closure in belonging There is security in co-existing There is peace in being.

I can tell you what it means, to have misery and joy all combined into one. Knowing that you will be robbed of everything. That every identifiable shred of your tumultuous identity will be stolen, and you will be left, formless. That you will own and tarnish the past and re-create every inch of it. You will lose everything, but what you will retain is the dull sense of ownership; of knowing that you painstakingly created this, from scratch, against opposition. And you will be left with an empty slate, to re-write. I remember it all. Like it was happening now, in front of me. Knowing what would make this perfect, and yet knowing it was impossible. Fighting everything, including myself to make it possible. And then giving it up. Knowing when it would self-destruct. Knowing when I was not right. Knowing when I was. But, also knowing that my brightness needed illumination. That an atmosphere that damned would not only be brutal on me, it would also be brutal on you. Knowing that our separ...