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(Photo credit: This poem was inspired by German painter Heiko Müller‘s brush drawing, Untitled (b/w-study 20, 2012). http://www.heikomueller.de)

 

It was not what she said

But what she

Did

Not say

That stabbed me in the

Stomach

And bled me dry

I felt like I would climb

But instead I

Died in her silence.

 

The truancy of heart

With which she

Explored

In all directions

South when I was North

In due time

As the Winter turned

To Spring

Burned me

In my solitude.

 

The way she melted

Under the sun

Made my skin

Run

Down like creeping wax

From a candle already

Shortened with use

In moments captured

By the sun but lived

In the light of the moon.

 

She was and is elusive

In the gifts she gives and

Takes

With fortitude of Queens and

Warriors on the field

Of war and

In the tents

Shrouded in white

Linen

Draped to conceal

But not to protect.

 

It was not what she held

But what she dropped and

Shattered

At her feet in shards

Cutting further

Than she wanted to go

Longer than she wanted to

Stay

Costing more than she

Wanted to pay.

 

I faced the moon

Grateful for his constancy

Marveling

Inside his transparency

Like a fish swimming

Amidst the bubbles in the deep

Where no one understands

And understood only

Once

That she was beyond

The moonlight’s reach.

 

copyright Jill Szoo Wilson

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