This Too Shall Pass

I wanted to reach for him. To hold him. To temporarily let him burrow into my brain to let him know I wouldn’t break his heart. That I am not his ex wife. That I will never be his ex wife. But I knew him well. I know when he gets overwhelmed he shuts down. It’s not his most attractive quality, but we all have unattractive qualities, don’t we? It’s about looking past all of that. The bluster and the bullshit.

White Horse

Fields of lavender in Provence. The blue and gold sparks of the sun and sky. Even that afternoon we got caught in that rainstorm. I took Sean’s hand and ran into the nearest coffee shop. (Two hot chocolates and one donut). I could feel the wholeness of it all. The weight of it all. Sean leaning against me. Me leaning against you. (Love must live here).

Where the Light is

There is not much I can say at this point. You have made up your mind. And acceptance is much harder to find than I thought. I have muddled up the first four stages of grief. Silk pillowcases of denial, hot coals of anger – so much anger – 4 a.m. prayers to God, and then a four shots of vodka kind of depression. I don’t want to believe it. When the way you held me at night, pressed yourself into my spine, and whispered into the splitting ends of my hair – you knew I was in love with you.

White Lightning & Blue Flames

It’s okay that you don’t see yourself the way that I do. That you don’t see how your eyes are sprinkled with flecks of hazel, and you probably don’t realize that you bring your left hand up to your mouth every time you laugh. The same hands that hold me, that could probably build towers and castles and maybe you do, maybe you don’t understand that when your left is in my right, I know you were worth waiting for.

Homebound

I watched from my window – the black sea hang below an even blacker sky – supple bursts of starlight coating the air with sweet flavors of winterberry and rooibos. Sea foam hoping to catch those falling gems, mini treasures to carry out to great depths, probably wished for by lonesome sailors searching for a French kiss or that old topographic map, whichever feels more like home.