“I don’t want to

give you any of it. None of it. Don’t even bother asking”, was the un-pep talk she gave her reflection every morning.

And the good Lord knew that her mirror needed some un-pepping.

It was greedy for power. And it had to stop.

She wallpapered over it. With the lyrics of songs, scriptures, books, poems. Her favourite people. Her favourite letters.

She stood back to gaze at her soul mirror. While eating her favourite ice cream.

 

Assiduous Respiratory Therapy

She drew back the curtains with all the care that wasn’t in the world. It was the only way she knew how. To stop the time. To restart his breathing.
(I could have that wrong – it might be, that she was the only one who knew how to do it. No one remembered. No one cared.)

The air was so thick with the calligraphy they had forced out of him. She uncurled it and  admired it in the twilight/non-time.  All things considered, it was still exquisite.

She had a new idea. And when he read her thought, he sat bolt up right, smiling.

 

 

Finally…

she nourished that patch with those flammable tears,

from jagged tears

and all that bares,

streaming arrears

the chanting of years’

mourning.

 

She returned in the blink of a decade,

no warning,

taken aback

by perpetual dawning

of the quiet hymn

of the rose.

 

(A lovely musical interlude by a lovely man).

pilgrim

Now the dune crescendoed right in front of her. Had she climbed it? What side was she on? Did it matter? This weary could not answer.

Sifting it through her fingers, she couldn’t find the piece she was looking for. So she let that gentle wind catch them all instead.

She wrapped herself in the cool of the breeze. And when she woke, she smiled, for there was nothing left. Of this dune of memories.

Nothing, that is, but him.

 

in the morning light

He flicked the ash out of the car window, and she knew that was the signal for her to continue. He thought he was good at pretending to listen, but she knew. When he did those long exhales he was thinking about something else, probably the zombie in his dream last night, the one distilled from the mirror that devoured him in slow motion, record time.
But she had sat on the floor, taking notes on her typewriter, writing him back into existence.

Damn, how he loved her.