"come up to meet you/tell you I'm sorry"
My head still throbs: continually turning it over doesn’t help. I want to move on, find us the next ladder. So I call you; then wash, shave, style my hair and dress like it’s our first date.
And I come to meet you, rehearsing my speech all the way: every word thought out with intense concentration on my face: bewildering some while others seem to understand.
As I get near the top of the hill you appear from the other side. We walk toward each other and stop, standing awkwardly outside the old house, unsure how to begin.
My speech disappears when I see your face, your beautiful face: tired and worn, your hair tied back, not a single muscle in your face active: like you’re frozen in time or lost in an emotional wilderness: your face like nature trampled by wheels, beaten about, bruised, leaving a stain of concern behind. My stomach drops at what I have done but something in your eyes speaks of hope.
We smile weakly and draw closer. Our reflective eyes meet, we apologise, make promises. As we do I take your clothes in my fists, my grip like a baby's; the material, as ever, is strange, exotic, comforting; reminding me that I need you. Then, slowly, we embrace, kiss unsteadily, teeth scraping, as if for the first time. And as we exit the scene, still shells of our former selves, it is a step in the right direction: the first part of our healing.
My head still throbs: continually turning it over doesn’t help. I want to move on, find us the next ladder. So I call you; then wash, shave, style my hair and dress like it’s our first date.
And I come to meet you, rehearsing my speech all the way: every word thought out with intense concentration on my face: bewildering some while others seem to understand.
As I get near the top of the hill you appear from the other side. We walk toward each other and stop, standing awkwardly outside the old house, unsure how to begin.
My speech disappears when I see your face, your beautiful face: tired and worn, your hair tied back, not a single muscle in your face active: like you’re frozen in time or lost in an emotional wilderness: your face like nature trampled by wheels, beaten about, bruised, leaving a stain of concern behind. My stomach drops at what I have done but something in your eyes speaks of hope.
We smile weakly and draw closer. Our reflective eyes meet, we apologise, make promises. As we do I take your clothes in my fists, my grip like a baby's; the material, as ever, is strange, exotic, comforting; reminding me that I need you. Then, slowly, we embrace, kiss unsteadily, teeth scraping, as if for the first time. And as we exit the scene, still shells of our former selves, it is a step in the right direction: the first part of our healing.
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