all he wanted from you was quiet, the hushed sleepy secret world of intimate. he longed for faith and for always, and forgave you when everyone told him not to. he spent hours listening, listening, folding comfort gently into your palm, feeding you sips of whispers and ease, and of love.
you stole into his private world in your shamed madness and found what you were looking for, what you needed: an almost-reflection of your own forgiven sin. you broke him once, and you break his faith in you again, using the discovered words of an ever-in-love poet against him.
now you're here, where you shouldn't be, your discontent soul searching for feed, for anything to make it what it used to be, those long days ago in the indian sunshine. your chest tightens, your plexus stings with the crave and urge to erase what you're doing and what you've already done.
and all a wizened mystic writer can tell you is that you will find yourself again, your calm heart in our voracious churning city. you will always be loved by him, and will always be held safe in the hands of your own sweet and silent multitude.
so hush, dear, hush, and hear the breezes sing your favorite lullaby. we promise, your peace will come...
© alva
april 24, 2013
