The scents of honey
and chamomile
dripping from my eyes.
--------------------------------------------
Silence;
Nothing but my footsteps crunching the soil and stones beneath me.
The faces of strangers collapse through the air
as if the stairs leading up into heaven can no longer hold them.
They are too weak under the weight.
And so the world is haunted.
I walk along paths that I alone have worn down
slipping in mud tears created.
Flower petals soak up the sun,
their glow translucent like the ears of the man facing me.
The crickets ignite their legs in song.
I watch the faces stare back at me.
I stand, unable to say a word.
I smile and lift my arm goodbye
and they wave back.
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Sweet crush of it between my teeth,
concentrating on the music
and the taste, blocking out the elephant
roar of whirring cleaning supplies,
squishing the tender flesh of fruit
against the roof of my mouth, tongue pushing
juice back into my throat, letting
it trickle down, closing my eyes
to block out the too-bright light, tapping my
feet to the beat and rhythm of
her voice through the earphones. The moon
is lost somewhere on the other side of
the world, rain falls lightly, splashes
shockingly hard on the railing,
a soaked paintbrush struck hard against my wrist.
--------------------------------------------
It is time that moves in and through and out, creating within me courage and self-consciousness. Light through the window, warming my neck, contrasting the chill of the wind sure to be found outside. I have written letters, read poems, listened to that which should be listened to--the words of men and women firm in faith--faith I can only hope to build. Faith I can only desire to know. I break--my limbs creaking with the weight of those who hang, swing and climb, laughing. Their smiles large and white, eyes expectant and content to stay within the maze of me. I wonder what I can do to chase them away. Cackling shrieks like sharp nails against my skin. I cannot shake, I cannot scream in return, I am unable and I pray to know why. "Why?" The question always unanswered, its secret masked leagues upon leagues beneath the sea. We answer all else, but never "Why?" We answer only in shrugs and sighs. We answer in fervent prayer. We answer in pleas, prostrate on the ground.
I watch a man from across the couch, my feet warm underneath me, our knees almost touching, my breath strong and silent. I watch him.
He looks into me and says, "I don't know why. We can always answer when, where, what, but we can never answer, 'Why?' I can't answer it either. I can only say that I do--I do care. Know that I do care."
In that moment, only faith is requested and only faith is required. In that moment, it's there. I fall into his eyes and feel time meshing all that has been and is and will be. I watch a man and he looks within me, reaching his arm into my gut, pulling out the tumor.
Did He answer me? After prayers and fasting did He answer me through a voice different from the voice I'd been waiting so long to hear? A voice outside myself, deep and melodic. Words that could not answer the question I had asked, but a voice that answered questions long forgotten. Was I finally quiet enough to hear--to listen? Recording each sound, each breath, each moment.
