Holding Dearly

 Holding Dearly 

  In my arms I hold my wife, her heart silent. Her skin as pale as the snow. She is cold, no longer holding warmth. Her embrace has vanished and her face is no longer familiar. Her lingering soul I feel though, I feel it upon my chest.

 I hear her voice speak softly, telling me to let go. But I cannot not. I cannot let such a love vanish so swiftly. This is not how I saw it, this is not how it should have ended. Our souls were meant for the ever lasting.

 We were meant to see a thousand sunsets and kiss a thousand moons. Now here I stand, alone in our house, the fire sparking its last coals. Winter settling its arms upon the valley and my breath seeping like mist from the mountains.

  Feeling every piece of me crumble like the dying leaf. How pitiful I be, holding dear the lifeless vessel of my wife. I know I need to let her go, I know she is no longer her. But my heart still weeps, a hole has burrowed through my ribs and into my heart.

 My blood pumps now with sluggish intent. Like sludge through poorly preserved pipes. I can barely hear the thumping of my organ. How sickly it be, a heavy stone wishing for life. But that life is gone, that once living miracle has now faded.

  My shadow only expands as the fire becomes dimly lit. Darkness coils over my eyes like a snake to his prey. My tears fall to the brisk air, freezing upon the floor. Crystallizing my sorrow with reflection of my restless face.

  Distraught am I, lost am I, maddened I may be? For what man in his right mind holds his dead wife through the passing days? Saying nothing, doing nothing, wanting nothing. My hunger for food has long faded with my love.

 I know there lingers a foul stench, but I have become intimate with it. Yes, this be ill I know, a dark place for any to go. But I have become romantic with such an aroma. I hold it in my nostrils as if the perfume of my wife.

 Though she be breathless, it is her I smell. It is here I hold dearly in my lungs and in the memory of my mind. To me, she still lives inside me. It is only that she is resting, dreaming of me. Dreaming of our love as it runs deeper than the oceans.

 As it blazes hotter than the sun and is more expanding than space. How beautiful she be, though her eyes are no more. How lovely her figure, though she has shriveled. I must let go, I must, but how do I? How do I let go of so many years?

 What twisted plot has been bestowed upon me? What wrongful acts have I done to be granted such tragedy? Have I committed too many sins? Was I not worthy of this love, of this vibrant woman? What have I done god, tell me, what have I done?

 The fire has died and now darkness has found me. It has enveloped me as does the night envelope the day. But there is no moon, no stars, no galaxy to shine. I am now but a wick that has been pried from its wax. Left to the cold echoes of a deceased love.

  My heart takes hold of the cold breath of death. I listen as its grim tune plays like a sick melody. A twisted fate of misery. I now fall upon my knees, my wife as recognizable as a stranger. And the darkness is too thick to breathe.

 My body falls to the embrace of the lonesome. The creeping of suffering is now the voice inside my head. Hollow howls of uncanny sadness resonate with such ungodly pitch. I rest my head upon the belly of my empty wife.

 My tears soaking to her unwashed dress. The stiff fabric softens to my tears like a dishrag left to the accumulation of unkempt dishes. But I still feel her and my pathetic and sickly state of mental anguish, I hear her one last time.

 Upon my ear like a soft wind. And from the silence she says,

"Let go, so we may be together. You must let us be."
What do you think of this mans need to hold his dead wife?

Deep does our heart run, but we often fear to dive in,   A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words 

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