Inspired by Kieran Halpin “China Rose”
A gentle breath, just a trace, is the wind that gently raises the curtain, and leaves it again, so that they sink back. Gently like the morning dew and your hand on my cheek, which now only caresses the wind. Imperceptibly, but I see it. The window is open. As you like It. The picture on the desk and your place is empty. Not for me. Presence cannot be extinguished, only as gentle as the breath, a trace.
A gentle fragrance blurs me while I remain. Your place. My place. Our place. We have found them pleasant to turn. To smile too. To talk. To listen to. You’re sitting there, one arm on the armrest, the other behind my back. Accepting without restricting. I let myself hold and carry. If I tell you. And if I search for words, I will tell you. You’re listening. Conduct me with your questions always continue to expand my thoughts, go on. You go with me. You’re with me and let me go. In the light of the setting sun, I tell you to explain to myself. In pronouncing it becomes more. Step by step.
„I love your passion,“ you say, when I tell you about all my dreams and plans, my commitment, and the unconditionality of my will. You give me the bond and inspire me. Confirmation and care. Confirm that the path is the right one. Care that I am not spending. You are the place where I fill strength and courage. It is you in your silent presence, which is the scent, and the breath and being, which also persists in the absence.
„I love to listen to you“, I say, when you tell me about your life and your thoughts and your way. Not necessarily straightforward, whatever that may be called in life. The way to get me to take me on the path you go. Sometimes I forget to listen, because I lose myself in your voice, let me fall into the sound and the warmth. I will not tell you. What should I say? It’s hard for me to concentrate on your words when you speak. Even if I know that you would have understood that yourself.
A gentle noise sounds from the table to me, on which your mug stands next to mine. Just as it always was. Again and again, I revise them, for nothing disburdens me more than the habit that belongs to us. To drink tea when the wind is rough, in the autumn, when the window is always opened shorter, into the winter. But now is summer and the wind is warm like your hand on my cheek.
A soft shadow. Images fade in the memory. They lose their sharpness, edges and corners. They become softer and more harmonious, until they fuse with the moment, and illuminate the now, until they are no longer shadows, but light, which also accompanies me through the darkest night.
I’m not afraid. You’re with me. In your place next to mine. The sound of your words, and the hand that caresses my cheek. Even if it’s just the wind. It’s like your hand, just a little colder.