His Identity

I suddenly longed to have his mark, his fingerprint – not just an reproduced image as on a driver’s license, but an actual print, his skin’s inky kiss on paper.

If I could have it – oh how I craved – then I could examine it, trace the loops and whorls with my hungry eyes; learn the intricate diagram of his identity.  

Somehow that would satisfy, albeit temporarily, my painful thirst to have him near to me, to be with him.  It may be in the smallest of means, my way to hold him close, to see him. I thought it could possibly dissipate the continuous aching for him; it would be my link, the connecting silver thread to my far-away love, and provide me with some comfort.

Time

Time does not heal all wounds. 

Each moment that I miss you pulls the edges apart little by little, bringing fresh blood and constant, throbbing pain.  Each awakening to a new day only reminds me of other days spent with you, and the time I wish I could share with you.  When I close my eyes at night another tally mark is made on an invisible but all-too-real page in a book of more blank pages whose count is unknown to me.  

Time is not my healer, not a gentle and silent physician who visits daily to sooth me.  It is a cruel master that I must follow over and over again to a room where I am whipped mercilessly.  Then it shape-changes to a strict schoolmarm slashing at my past mistakes in red ink.

It is an empty theater whose stage hosts specters depicting scenes of my memoirs; and sometimes acting out weakly and sadly scenes titled “I wish”, “If Only”, and “Maybe One Day”.