poems i'd read, bereaved.

You’re as distant as the other side of the moon. I gaze at you, asleep as the sun rises slow this January, this arctic wave of unbearable cold that no warmth can harness.

My hands are too cold to fondle your skin, so they are hands I keep to myself. I wondered if you ever knew how much it hurt me to feel so much but not know how to reach you through the vast steppes of silence between us. I’ve always had those pages to write to you infinitely: my fondest thoughts, my most fiery odes that make my heart twitch with the arrival of much more than morning light.

Sometimes loving you is a tidal wave that smothers me. A wildfire that eats away the gaps and the whole of me, too. I’m consumed and I’m empty. I’m the paradox of having too much to say and not a single notion to paraphrase.

I wince watching you sleep. There are things you’d never know, love. Things humanness never amassed. Holiness of love to be anointed with but never grasped.

When you wake, silence on your face, I realise the difficulty of the choices we have made: living the truth midst the illusions abound. You let me lay my cheeks on your chest, soon tear-stained, soon out of colour and life.

I didn’t know it would be that hard to love you, dear. I gather the only thing I know, a handful of poetry. I read to you, my voice cracked and empty.

“Have I lived enough?

Have I loved enough?

Have I considered right action enough, have I

come to any conclusion?

Have I experienced happiness with sufficient gratitude? Have I endured loneliness with grace?

I say this, or perhaps I’m just thinking it. Actually, I probably think too much.

Then I step out into the garden,

where the gardener, who is said to be a simple man,

is tending his children, the roses.” (mary oliver)

I sigh for all at once there is the plea of need for just one word to say, and out of bereavement I lay out my weakness in whispers, where are you, my beloved friend?

And like the seasons, I’m the winter of your garden. Dear, garden me with ease.