she stepped outside and the winds were warm.
the night softly clung onto the street corner and the tree tops.
the feelings were not urgent, more matter of factly. she stood and wondered at the stars. nothing really mattered: the world too confusing, the paths hiding in the dark.
There is a plan, a weekend, the truth.
Really, we just want to be in each other's arms, long enough. Tena na tena.
Lakini: we already know. I think. You know it, too. We just don't want what we know.
You show me, hold me, we sway, I dissolve, you come, holding my body like a treasure, wiping my tears, holding my head. I laugh and we sink into each other's arms. 'The problem is' I say slowly, 'we are both givers'. You agree.
It's a long road to recover. I don't want to leave the cocoon. The shapes hunt me down, claw my brain, make me weep in cemeteries, on the bike, at work. I swallow. I return. You say 'maybe what you said, or ... maybe we could put it on hold. What is true in September 2023 may not be true in March 2024'. Exactly my thoughts. But I also know that closing doors properly frees energy. So maybe, after all, the retreat. At least, so we can excavate our souls. Figure out how to do this more poetically. An appropriate way of parting. The obligation: that we shall live more fully, more truthfully. Even with hurt, it works.
In the end, just one more cup of coffee.
