THAT WHICH GOES UNSAID...

  It is the rain. The rain. The rain that is unbearably cold and unbearably reminds me of blue days. unbearable blue days, of exhaustion that comes with being happy. Happiness is an exhaustion. Sadness on the other hand is a slow intoxication. It is the rain. The cold rain that finally unburdens the exhaustion of happiness and trickles into the world, sadness, one drop at a time.one sadness at a time. sadness is accommodating. Come sit with me, tell me your sorrow. it is the rain, The rain. The rain that has this buzzing that calls forth the sadnesses it is the rain, the rain the slippery glasses that opens the inward gaze. in a dark room.

I  was dealing with depression and family responsibilities, yet trying to heal from trauma but you chose to leave me right then. Right when, I was gathering up courage , courage to finally owe up to a 7 year slow burn for you, waiting for you to finish your career goals when you left me. And not even a word before the final hour. Not even a warning , but a blow. I have loved you since the first day I met you.. since the first trip I took with you. Since the time we stared at a moonlit mountain together. You were a rock, my anchor. The day it all ended, I told my friend... I feel like a rudderless anchorless boat.. As I suffer through my personal troubles now, my failing health, I wish .. and I rage.. and I scream internally... YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN HERE. And although you never promised anything, it seems weird now that it was all me and zero of you in there.

Years have passed. We both stand reflecting our respective choices. Choices that shaped both of us now. Stand in the silences of those choices made. Come down to the silences of the reflection of your choices in me and mine in you. Let those mountains that once held our hearts together absorb our pain. Let the moon that once bound our clasped bodies shine on us separately now.  Let the rains that made us weave poetry together fall on our eyes and bodies washing away the pain that comes with a missing part of heart. Someone who cares about me now tells me to forget you. I will perhaps never forget you. There is always a place for that one person who you believed to share your life with. We both wanted to take the road less travelled. But the paths in the wood that we each took moved us away.  Will our paths ever merge? Maybe. Will we ever share a sunset or a moonrise again? Maybe, but not in each other's glow. I free you today. from the shackles of me. And I free myself from you.

I visited a forest and stood motionless under a canopy, An early spring's heap of dried leaves crumbling under my feet.. The only sound their breaking bones.. I looked up to see a leaf falling.. Almost like a sole movement .. Like a meteor rushing across a motionless sky.. My skin crawled with a memory Whether from my mind or my gut, I cannot tell. There were instances like this before With or without you. That whenever I had done this before, I had an assurance of the meaning of The motionlessness being you.. The meaning that a leaf twilled through  An universe like a shooting star.. That both will return to dust.. But that all of this was for you.. Yet today the leaf seemed to fall infinitely And the star never completely burned.. Like there is motionless story that seeks no end. I have tried to set you free often. And myself from you. N You could. I still can't. Because in the depths of what caused things to come to a meaningful end, Despite no seeming reason.. Was you.

What is common with the numerous stories  and fables and mythology  and history and NOW, and ever, of a tribe of strong women? Why is history and NOW so spineless that they bring down crime   and war, rights and wrong to the doing of this tribe that they cannot handle? That they cannot handle  a woman with herbs, a woman behind a telescope, a woman with an axe, with a head full of snakes, a woman with beauty or without, and hair, a woman with a voice, in their heads or in their body, a woman with the ballot, with a sceptre,  or women with the pen or swag. The narratives that should move around the morals of right and wrong, are inevitably reduced to darkness, you cannot explain that is beyond your comprehension. BEYOND YOU. And then you chop down the head of Medussas, burn them tied to the poles, and make them examples to many women- to get it in their bones  that strong women are "audacious". That "audacity" is a crime. and then her herbs are the crime, her brains

At the end of the disaster that swept Our streets with the twilight And seeped into our hearts  Like the moonbeams, What remained was a patch of purple On my dress. It was not your purple... It was of a mindful kid who drew blossoms of lavender on everything On my copies, my walls My dress. Yet why does a purple patch  Like the twilight And the disasters  Remind me of  times  That never were.