Breathe.
Face in hands, chin resting upon the rounded thumbroots of the palms, eyes shut, warm fingers slowly, soothingly tracing outward the familiar furrow of brow, skirting then the hollows of the closed eyes, lingering along the temples to the points of cheeks, thumbs sliding down the chin, hands coming finally to touch fingertips to mated fingertips, lips pressed against the now crossed knuckles of the thumbs, a position almost as though in supplication of a power never met.
Think.
This is not so hard a thing. To write. They are only words, only words. There is no one here who knows you, perhaps not even yourself. There is no danger in words written in the air. Embrace that. It is a freedom, a thing rarely allowed.
Write.
If only this-- a promise to write, an attempt to be honest if not always clear, an endeavour to step out from the isolation of self-erected obstacles deftly placed between self and others, a step outward loosening the careful fierce grasp upon the ribbon wrapped so tight around all that is not, will not be spoken, but nonetheless is felt, and does not dissolve in the practice of being unsaid.
Cease.
It is enough. Awkward though it is, it will serve for now. There is time. There will come things to say, better things and the grace perhaps to state them in such a manner as not to engender embarrassment.
Loading comments...