You don’t feel close here in this empty room, bare walls, bare space. I look around, feel the weight of absence —where are you? And the friends who loved me, fought beside me? Victory we knew was ours? Someday, someday my hands reach to grasp yours and I am surely hold- ing only air. Yet
I will not despise her no matter what you say. She is lovely, her heart what he holds in his hands, Her voice a song he created, every word a note he loves to hear. She is a masterpiece– exquisite, incomparable, indestructible fragile-strong. He calls her Pure, his True One, and she cannot be replaced
It is when she thinks she is alone that she finds him. A flutter of wings outside the window, a caress of wind on her cheek, a warm hello from the wheelchaired man in his garage. I am not complicated; my love for you is not complicated, he says. And the untangling begins —a whisper,
Hold this hand calloused, tired and grasping, grasping at this hard air slipping through fingers that want to hold on onto anything anything that feels real. They catch nothing, hold nothing, hold nothing I want to keep. So catch me catch me, as I drift without tether. Turn my face so my eyes meet yours.
I never thought it would look like this, where time with you was just pretend, a waiting, a pacing, an ache of busy. There is something I’m missing and I’m afraid I won’t find it. So I stopped looking before I started. And that is when pretending is painful. —jennifer j. camp