Words have eluded me. Or perhaps I have fled from them. Not the noise in my head, but the formulating and plotting and putting down of the things. I have been running past the words like a relay runner who has forgotten he is part of the team. Ignoring the baton. Eyes pinched shut, sprinting headlong toward an imagined – what seemed like an inevitable – finish line.
And yet the stuff happened. The world spun round and the damn sun kept coming up and things scraped themselves together into a life and held meaning and I let it remain there. At the tip of my tongue. On the ends of my fingers.
For days like this one. An end and a beginning. A moment wrapped up and dunked into the big shiny batter of significance. Of meaning. Of faltered steps and stammered words and hands held tight so none of it slips away. So many details gone forever. And forever those two words remain.
We said them because they were part of the script. They made sense in the context of the day. The ritual. Like the way we sometimes say, “I love you.” Because we have to in order to move on to the next thing. Twenty years worth of next things. Moments that begin with a sweetly-breathed I do. Sometimes a sigh. But always the words.
You keep me here. Sweaty and shivering and mostly calm in the palm of your hand. You refuse to let me drift too far or wander too close to the edge. I see it, reach for it, let my desire for it consume me, and you are there to keep me safe. You have never complained or grown weary of me. You mean it when you say things. Do things. When I have stopped to look at you, I have never felt anything but safe. Held. Beheld. And burned alive over and over and over again. Such is your commitment to me.
In the din and in the quiet and in the moments I hear nothing but contempt I reach for you with all of me. You are never far. And you take me every single time. You smile at me and say it again.