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Tuesday, November 13, 2012 On Waiting.
 We were waiting. And although you weren't even here yet, this space was already warmed by the flame that was idea of you. Cheeks pressed against the cold glass windows, we waited. We had wanted to catch the first glimpse of you walking up the pavement covered in snow. We spent all the warmth left in the room, waiting. We waited and you never did arrive. You never will. (We are well. Seasons change and so we understand. Spring is around the corner. The sun will bring the warmth you never were able to give. We've done this once before, we'll do this again.) Labels: writing the unwritten |
First there are the ones who read it, listen to what is said and absorb it, all of it. Then they draw an impression of her in their minds, and she stays like that to them until she does not matter, just because they are simple enough to take it all in, every single piece of it. 
