Crossings X


In the absolute calm of mid afternoon sun I listen to the few songs I have parsed my life into, gulls crying, water rushing, slowing, curling against yellow glass sand, reeds rustling and bending with a warm breeze rolling off undulating waves. I know now I abandoned you as surely as you let me go. There was no other way to do it. I was the rock beneath the water that held the ground, not you who professed wisdom, swore I did not allow love. I wanted the heat of our mouths pressed against each other and water pooling between our bellies. I could not allow myself to feel your hesitation, to know my own, to endure the fear that crawled up my spine when I was about to open all the way to where your eyes called. I would rather stay here, away from you, with the color of the sea warming from indigo to green, the sky shimmering rose, mauve, pearl, feeding my hungry eyes, a longing I trust, than hold you in the very passion that would destroy me because you cannot call me by name. I have no name you murmur in dreams and yet I have more names than most women, still nothing that translates to the predictability you so desperately need. You seek a woman with a simple name, when you call her she turns and you know how the day will unfold. When you call me, the wind rises or dies in the dead calm of ebb tide and you have never had a chart for that. What brings laughter to my throat remains a mystery to you, which is exactly why you would rather see me cry. You know how to make that happen and you know how to leave when you have had enough. As I walk barefoot along the beach, I liken myself to the cliffs of sand where storms and high tides have cut into what is beautiful and beautifully created by the very sea that takes it away again, waves forcing, and slashing furrows. Striated cliffs stand in the serene and light colored afternoon, dignified and unopposed until the darkest night when a fierce storm thrusts sharp white waves against vulnerable shoreline taking back to the sea what belongs to the sea. You are no longer like that. You will not come and call me until I give you what you want, until I become less of what I have become and more of what you need me to be. You find your solace now in what is easy, whoever shows up ready to occupy your hours, to lull you into believing you are whole when we both know the truth, you are empty, of language, of faith, of containing the sorrow that loving deeply inevitably brings. Even if you stand and posture as a hero, even if a beauty fawns over you, even if you no longer think of the courage it would have taken to find a word, a gesture, you are empty. You could not reach out to me, to your own life, mi vida, tu vena, my life, your vein. I could not stay.