She comes slowly in the night
at first, ever so softly like a faint autumn breeze
The sun and the moon meet and she is once again resurrected from the deepest parts of the night sky.
When the music dies down
When the birds stop singing their melodic song
When the grandfather clock strikes the witching hour.
With conceding arms, I find myself coming to greet her, as I always do.
I embrace her melancholic whispers seeping into me like a needle puncturing ink into the skin.
Her haunting touch slices through me
It pierces deep
A cry, only a single cry I utter forth; the world neglects to pause
A cut so profound that erupts to her presence
and deepens into a sorrow marking of loneliness.
The ocean in my chest ceases to flow its stream of life into the rivers throughout me.
The rivers dry up…
For a thousand years, my lips shriveled and cracked
My fingertips, parched with the dripping desire to rise again
Until I recognize the absence of her
And the cut which brought the endless drought and the incarcerating pain
is now vague.
I become alive to this revelation, just as she was revitalized by the night sky so long ago.
The birds begin whistling their familiar song: an enchanting reminder that the day is dawning
Morning.
And the river within me flows a relentless stream of solace.