It is not often that I find my skirt being lifted. Most of the time it sits still smothered and weighed down by disappointment. Left alone I am never bored but rarely does what I overhear compel me to drift closer. I see things of beauty, of course, and hear interesting things from time to time, but rarely do I find myself presented with all my stimulants in one package. The handsome primp the beauty; the thought provoking, like me, seem disinterested. And then came him.
I do not know him. He doesn’t even live in the same part of the world; he could be my son.
What I find myself dallying over is his honesty, his directness, how he manages to gently say: I like you, Moira. How he knows I’ll be there. It’s not a swoon that I feel, it’s more along the lines of a simple pleasure, like knowing something sweet awaits me in the kitchen or being in the presence of someone long known and worn to comfort. I feel joy in his youth. I feel love for his struggles. I’m startled by how wonderful his smile is when he’s chosen to share a picture. He and I are never alone; eavesdroppers abound. I can sense them there but they stay in the periphery when he and I talk.
I know things that he doesn’t know. Details and nuances that come with living. Things that if I could convey, could somehow transplant into him, I know his body would suddenly see the horizon. On that horizon is perpetual hope. That thing with feathers that perches in the soul...
Into the forest, do not go, My Dear. Stay and rage against that dying light, for if you go, there will be a light within me that will sputter out.
I do not know him. He doesn’t even live in the same part of the world; he could be my son.
What I find myself dallying over is his honesty, his directness, how he manages to gently say: I like you, Moira. How he knows I’ll be there. It’s not a swoon that I feel, it’s more along the lines of a simple pleasure, like knowing something sweet awaits me in the kitchen or being in the presence of someone long known and worn to comfort. I feel joy in his youth. I feel love for his struggles. I’m startled by how wonderful his smile is when he’s chosen to share a picture. He and I are never alone; eavesdroppers abound. I can sense them there but they stay in the periphery when he and I talk.
I know things that he doesn’t know. Details and nuances that come with living. Things that if I could convey, could somehow transplant into him, I know his body would suddenly see the horizon. On that horizon is perpetual hope. That thing with feathers that perches in the soul...
Into the forest, do not go, My Dear. Stay and rage against that dying light, for if you go, there will be a light within me that will sputter out.
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