An Opus: First Movement

There is no use in crying over it.

There’s no use crying over it, he repeated.

She looked at him solemnly.

Photo by Meghan (@meghanwaslike)
Photo by Meghan

That’s what he said as he took her hand into both of his.  It was a last ditch effort, a thought that seemed to prove worthy enough to restore the crumbling faith that once glowed in her eyes.  This was at the fact that she was never his to begin with, and it took him this long to realize it.  And they sat in silence for a bit.  It was going to be difficult to swallow–not because his drink was far to hot at the moment to sip–and he didn’t want to drop her hand.  He didn’t want to hold her hand, but it felt right.  The ginger pricked at his nostrils.  His fingertips warmed gradually, and it–the comfort–helped the color bloom in his eyes at the expense of goosebumps rising.  If he were to, there was a great fear that her arm would slither away across the table to her lap.  This scene would all play out in slow motion, and even he would react poorly and unable to catch it.  Her ring would glisten as her hand retracted, reflecting in the cold and pitiful sun that groggily awoke that day.  For the very first time and in his presence, she tucked her hand in her pocket.

*   *   *

and we wonder why you don’t write in all lowercase letters anymore:  is your heart no longer filled with e.e.’s inspiration?  is there no vacancy left in your heart (not even a speck of room?) for the winter months?  or is perhaps Spring not on its way fast enough for your consideration of such a task reliable?

it’s a new year after all, and new change should be welcomed, bullish and haphazard, and everything should be broken and destroyed and practically burned to ash so new the New Things will be broken in and comfortable by the Year End.

the New Books should be destroyed, pages torn, and bits and pieces of prose should be cut out and glued together like those magnets that everyone seems to have, because they have the potential to sing.  the poetry in their hard hearts isn’t recognized or distinguished as anything because they’re heads are clouded with the resin of regret.  but passages–the glued and semi-permanent blemishes upon the walls and the doors all serve as simple reminders that beauty–as small as it is in a comma or contained in parenthesis–is all around us.

stick on your door, my suggestion and edward’s words:

“here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
 and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart” 

you’ll be able to see those words every time you leave, but you’ll come home to a blank Front Door entrance to feel that loneliness again for that heartbreaking brief moment and Death cannot come quickly enough, a so-beautiful of a Death that emily* cannot even construct, leaving you wanting to experience it again and the pain more fierce and the reincarnation to do it all over consecutively.

it’s all for the sake of feeling.  because you care, you feel.  you have passion.

your lips quiver so slightly but vibrantly and if a bow was pressed and glided upon those soft painted pillows a chord so beautiful could be heard and it would shatter the glass within a nine mile radius to shards to flutter to the ground, jingling like bells.

and the noise would wake a population. stop them wide-eyed.  pulling their breath away and out of their lungs to the point where hearts stop beating and twitch. to coldness your body temperature drops and the sensation wells up an eye for a solitary tear that runs rambunctiously down your cheek, crying freedom.

and you close your eyes.

and your head bows as you enter that gentle apartment with the dim lights dissuading any intruders crawling through the dark and you shut the door.  the residual amber soy scent.  your eyes open and you see your Front Door’s back message and reminder

“and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart”

and your things slip from your hands as you back into the corner and slide to crouch.

you close your eyes.

and you wake up.  in bed.

*  *  *

Be sure to guide her to safety.  Be sure to stare into her eyes.  And you should take her hand when you kiss her.  Hold it high, hold it low.  It doesn’t matter.  She won’t expect it.  The other hand is up to you.  There is a first for everything.  Do it right.  Catch her if she falters.

[And in the background an orchestra comes to life, bows and friction and fury.]


* Emily Dickinson

3 thoughts on “An Opus: First Movement

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