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A pro playing with pros

Updated on October 3, 2010


You held, cupped in your coupled hands, promises. pools of silent, unspoken or fathomed words which held meaning: promises. Within your cupped hands – hands which could turn to the strenuous labor should need be, but instead were delicate with the silence, delecate with the insinuations, which you gently blew across my eyelids, into my smearing tears, to my stained cheeks, to be absorbed.
of course, you don’t see them. you don’t understand the concepts, the ideas, the future you described to me with the simple in and out of your breath, the caress of your hand on mine, the simple returning of your metephorical seed which you told me the story of, the promisethat it would be planted, to grow and loom into an old oak until it became too heavy for its own branches, and eventually, hunderds of years down the line, the wind would knock it down. The seed, which would be our beginning. The wind to be our end.
Or did you forget?
An Acorn, a book, a make-shift four leafed clover – just things you find of particular interest to share, but to me convey secret meanings and hopes. The clover brought me no luck, i never used those recipes, and i am hesitent to plant the acorn. You have turned yoru gifts of sweetness and perhaps – perhaps – love? into wasted space, uncertainty, considerable food for a winter fire. Do you know? At least you do know that i will always keep them. In my little box of precious things, i will keep them. Along with the memories you and your nearest presented to me, the glass heart you bestowed unto me, and the thousands of words written with you at their core.
Where are you?
Where are you?
Where did you go?
Where are you?


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      Jed Divine 7 years ago

      Truly an amazing piece of writing.