Monday morning at 7:03 am. A layer of gray is settling across the heavy closed sky and threatening Monday rain. The water creeps into my cold bones that yearn only for the warmth of sun.
A pause now to touch paper, hold this pen, see what grows from the heart. Before long, night will arrive, with not a breath taken, not a flower seen. Not a touch felt, not a soul held.
We are disembodied limbs Walking past and through each other like lonely headlights through fog. How can we remember to open our eyes, hearts, hands? How do we find each other even though we were always here?
The clock ticks on and beings are born and lost and born again. We wait with a dry mouth and panicked heart wasting time and endless tears. Longing only for the nectar of sweet words and the salve of ordinary love.
Do you too rise on Monday morning and try to warm your bones? I hope we remember you and me and the only words that can save us. They will remind us of who we are and so much more when everything else fades into gray.