Words

I miss words. I miss you, too, but it turns out, maybe for the first time ever, I miss words more. When the dove woke me, its soft coo calling through the dark, the waning crescent moon was just above the horizon—in dreamy Pisces no less though that shouldn’t have come as a surprise. The surprise was to find that I still missed words more than you. The ache to reach inside to put longing, to put sensation to voice, to make them real, touchable. As if what is felt in the body is not that; as if what is felt in the body is ethereal, nothing more than a soft cloud blowing in the wind; except that you have to have not left your body to know what's real and what is not. I don't know how to evade the ever-present mind to express what craves light, what yearns for air, what is desperate to be unlocked. The melody of the creek yesterday, the scent of new rain, the first blossom of love. There is that one chord in that one song that flattens itself out when it hits my solar plexus, rippling out in concentric circles like water hit with a stone, undulating, raw, a revolving door sliding open. There was that beautiful dream a week ago. Anima and animus reunited, yin and yang flowing one into the other. Since then, November does what it does, fades to December, though you have not. Nor has the new moon darkness of that first night without you; then the lifetime. You, you know who you are. Me, I had already fled, more alone than ever before, no clue where, even less that I had gone missing.