Most days and minutes and moments, he's flitting in and out of my view. My eyes, they strain to focus in on his figure like the wind. My hands, they reach to grasp him, but he slips through, grains of sand in an hourglass that has no beginning or end. I simply can't hold him.
He's a breath caught in the back of my throat; a tiny gasp, and then, he's gone.
The other day, the veil pulls back, a moment in time, and I am a cup opened wide and tipping forward, receiving love and spilling over. I lean my whole frame against the bedroom wall, my cheek pressing streaks of wet, and I close my eyes to see.
His frame, leaning in, toward me. His eyes, focused, in a swirl of activity all around him, the one who is outside of time. His ears, perked and attentive. I whisper his name, and I see, in my closed-eye view, him shift in heaven.
He's there. And I'm here. But he's here, too. And I am caught somewhere in between.
I slide my hands against the wall, feeling for his, and if I just seal my eyelids tighter, maybe I can even feel those hands warm on the edges of my palms and the tips of my fingers.
We meet here, within and outside of time, and all I can do is cry, and if anyone saw this, I would look like a crazy person - and maybe I am. I just want to be held and he just wants to hold, and so I lean against this wall and rest.
And the moment, it passes, but leaves its imprint, the wings of a bird against a glass window, while I peer through and remember: he came near.
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