(photo by anders jilde)

the truth is i fear i have nothing to say but that’s the trouble with perfection: the antelope have more to say.

the seatide is high where i come from. it washes it all away, drags it down.

i never did learn to swim as a child.

is that why you had to leave me with such haste, my wife for a day, maybe two, (we never could agree on that). are you a moon and i the tide when i stare through your eyes and tangle and lose my self in your sea of hair?

but i am not writing to you. though i may confuse the two now and then. like your delicious cigarretes and flower lips. you are a girl with beauty and imperfection, not a goddess of the night. that, my sweet love, is me.

and now my heart is open at all costs. every day i cry with intensity. and i smile like i have not before because you have not left me. you are here with me. and there is enough love to overpower the pain.

your husband

is my

mother’s pain

and i cry through the pain and release it. i release my mother’s pain. my family’s pain through the generations. there is always more that finds its way to the surface. and i declare without words (again) as a man of 36 (as i did in my way as a boy of 12 on the bus to school) that there is great power and strength even nobility in letting the tears come when they must without judgement or fear.

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