In this blinding light, on such a bright morning, I seek your smile, a sign, even a shard of memory.
Where are you, in this, or another world?
Do the rays of our star still caress your skin?
Or are you now so far beyond, perhaps on an alien shore, watching another sun rise?
I have lost your trace, your scent, the feeling of your existence.
Night will come.
Overwhelmed by sorrow, he called for his guardian angel. She came at once, and took him to the cliff to watch the sunset, just the two of them. All at once calmed, reassured, he looked up to her smiling face: then she said: “I know, you feel lonely, but in truth you are lucky, you had more love than most mortals, and maybe you did not always deserve it…”
“Now is time for you to give grace, for your life, for the children you were given, for this sunrise… And for me to come to you, as I saw your distress.”
He felt on his knees, but she insisted he stood, side by side with her, and he felt her searching his mind, destroying the demons and the false hopes.
“Of course you will die, when your time comes. For now, look at the star rising, feel the warmth, feel my hand on your shoulder, and don’t wallow in self-pity. I will come back when it is your turn…”
He felt her lips on his, her presence, and then she was gone. Alone he watched the dawn of a new day.
He knew where they had met, but he was less certain of when that was. He remembered the small town, and the woods, above all the woods, where they walked, kissed, watched the sun rise, the freezing dawns, enlaced, forever at one, with each other, and with the trees.
She was the one, and those were their beginnings. They watched the sun set, the skies on fire. Her grey eyes reflected the light. He had felt so strong then. He was, so they called him. She watched him go, such a breakup in her heart…
Now, after all the death, the sand, the blood, he was back. Alone, at the end, a fallen hero.
Sleep is one of the great pleasures of life: the one moment we surrender, safely, relax our body, release our pains, and if we sleep alongside a loved companion, the prelude to, or conclusion of, other pleasures.
For us it is a ritual: I am ahead of you, our clocks being slightly out of perfect synch, and when you lie down, I may already be dreaming. It is intended: you have a choice: let jarhead to his dreams, or wake him up for work, that is for love, that is for what you want, as you want it, as is your privilege. But this is about sleep, for now.
You lie naked, nestled against this great bulk of husband, your slender back offered to him, unconscious, but all-knowing. Later you may stretch and spread your legs, and if I happen to be ever so lightly awake, leaning on my elbow, I will admire your intimacy, the cherished treasures of our togetherness. You may then sense my preying, pull the sheet over your body in your sleep, or turn round and, triumphant and bright-eyed, challenge me to prove my devotion: later still, as you lie again deeply asleep, at day break, I will look out at the sunlight playing over the oak trees, from our window, in wonder at this miracle: the geometry of our dreams.
