the po~et 14 (on the thrashing floor)

As she looked out of her kitchen window that morning it would seem that the sun was taking it's time rising--as if it called in saying it would be late. That set the tone for the day.

She had wanted to roll over and see his bearded face and allow her hand to roam his body checking to see if her touch would get the response she was hoping for. Instead he wasn't there, his words would have to suffice. She was reading his work as if he was reading the words to her, picturing that look of self fulfillment as he is amazed at what has been extracted from his soul.

Even though she believed there was no hope of having him, she loved him. She had never kissed him, never made love to him. She knew little of his past and was always surprised when he unrobed himself through limited clues.

In her mind she had convinced herself that they could heal one another, they could cover one anothers nakedness with a quilt. One that would block away the past and keep them warm through tomorrows nights.

Around mid-afternoon over a lonely lunch she realized between the lines on the ink stained pages would be the only place she would ever have him. She knew it wasn't real in the tangible sense of realness, but it was a common place. It was the place where he left a part of himself, where he was not ashamed of the ideals that resided within. And whenever he entered there he left a piece for her on the thrashing floor.