A story long in telling, part one?

I’m afraid to write this down,

afraid that it becomes truth once committed to the page.


Once upon a time there was a young woman,


all the time searching for…

well, that’s what she never knew.

And one day,

surrounded by people celebrating her natal day,

this man strums his way to the bottom of her soul.

Her eyes aglow

as she turns to first one, then the other of her closest confidants.

They know that look all too well, and roll their eyes in camaraderie.

She’s fallen again,

this time for the least likely of suspects,

but there you have it.


Like a fool, I paint this image,

my heart breaking as though hounding the heels of a hurricane,

there is the beautiful that you can hold to all you want

until that time which inevitably rocks you back to reality.


The truth is, reality is the exact moment in which the sword of beauty pierces the heart of torment.


“What an odd sensation,” she muses months later,

wrapped in the arms of this exceptional, intelligent man.

“warm, like that early-morning, slow burn of the first sip of coffee.”

Yeah, she had cascaded into…

at the very least a healthy appreciation for this person.


It wasn’t all warm vanilla and dryer-fresh towels,

to be sure those moments exist,

but for these two, as for all of us,

they transpire solely within their own purity.


At this point, I would like to point out that I am…


And while it is tempting to nurse these stirrings of bitterness and resentment

into full-blown hatred,

I cannot, in good faith.


These slight tremors of emotion found their way to maturity

with every lunch-time exchange regarding over-correction;

every time soft sighs and light laughter greeted the morning,

in those rare occasions that their voices wound their way into the tranquil vibrations that are the beginning and the end, everything and nothing all at once.



And this young woman, she realized,

she had never felt anything so deeply in all of her life.

And she, as so often do we all, found herself afraid.

What if she wasn’t pure enough for such an experience?

What if he decided he didn’t love her anymore?


So here we are,

this part I’m not currently equipped to portray as story,

the wounds are yet fresh and seeping.

Suffice it to say, there was jealousy, lies, deceit, and fighting.

Not pretty and as yet undigested.


She easily recalls the moment,

as though she were living it every time the thought crept into her brain.

It slinks in, prepared to consume everything in its path.

It’s arresting, as though she couldn’t come up for air if she wanted.

She’s unsure what happened.

Perhaps desire slays common sense in every arena.


It’s extraordinarily difficult for me to remain honest in this moment.

Conceivably, it may be impossible.

Truth easily becomes muddled by perception on all sides.


As for him, well, his reality is his own.

She will not to speak to it.

Though she has her speculations,

their purpose serves no worthwhile end,

and she would do well to allow them freedom from her thoughts.


Besides, while she may not be walking away unscathed,

she is most certainly walking away unbroken.


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