Still . . . (a monosyllabic prosepoem)

By Jing Villamil

 

SHE bares her soul, in one swift sweep. There is no way to do it. She says: “I have met love. And I have donned its skin. And tight it wrapped. Zipped in it, I tapped and hopped, swirled and swayed. I dreamed and hoped. And I feared and teared. And I learned love has not one face. Nor does it strike once.”

He who has gone on to heal, kept his self a mere part of a crowd. Seen, yet not. He watched her find her true self on stage. He wrote to her, her first, and as she was too young to know what the words meant, she let the note drop. She saw his eyes, too, drop. And he did not pick up hence. His sad eyes haunt her still.

And he who had played her song and had watched her grow by days and nights and years, had just watched as she whirled and spread her wings and fly. He could have fought for her, could have stopped her flight, could have held her hand and grasped it tight and back. He gave up as fast as the wind whisked, as storms whipped. In her life; not so much in his. He kept quiet and still. But he says he prays for her still.

He was the one who walked by and did not see the girl who hid and hugged him to her young heart. When the fence that kept her safe from the world went down, she lost him. Or he lost her? For years and years and years. She hugs him in her heart still. And kept him in there. Not out; not near.

And he, who could have saved her, he broke her trust. He leaned on her until she cracked. She scratched and bit and peeled her way out of the tie that bound, and though she limped slow, she limped far. She did not look back.

And he who swore he would wait; he did not. He rushed out to his death. He did not have her faith, that there is still for them what is left of the rest of their lives. But. She still have that faith.

I reached out. I touched her hair, the damp on her cheeks. And I pulled her frail cold self, to me. Her wounds and her pains, to me.

And felt my arms wrap round my self.

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