I listened. She spoke of where she has been,
who she has seen. I dipped my chin beneath the
soft material hanging limply 'round my neck.
Her voice rose. It wasn't high enough to shield
my ears from the returning cold air. It was sweet, melodious;
cold. It wasn't cold enough to numb me from the
existing cold air.
The trees and wind rhymed. Her words lost their energy,
they became erratic, disjointed. The dryness in my throat expanded
before she began describing the desert - skin burning, sun unseen.
The warmth in my chest ignored the cold as she recalled
burning her finger creating fire with woods, her voice stilling,
wind rushing and rushing around me.
I listened. I listened to her whispers with a
warm heart, warm mind, but cold body.
I listened to whispers about me, I listened
to the whispering wind and felt it. It whispered to
let go. But I listened, and held. I held your
voice in me;
It cried and bent, but I held it in me.
It doesn't rust. It doesn't grow. It awakes with me,
sleeps with me. I am writing this, my
Love, to tell you I can no longer hear your words.
The wind is gaining strength, I
can't hear properly. I can feel your voice,
it's here, just too weak. I listened to you.
Can I listen to the wind tonight?
