Eric M. Petit

Grasp the Immovable Hands

 

She had pain she kept hidden like old diaries tucked away in dusty chests,

Old sadness covered over, old scars of deep cuts but she could not hide them from him.

She did not pull them down from the attic and relive these memories but he could read their pages

In her eyes, in the times between the joy and laughter, between the passion and fire.

He did not need to know the words; he had his own dark pages and he knew the way they read.

He wanted only to take them into himself, absorb them, swallow them down deep

So they could never hurt her, never again touch her heart. He would gladly have borne

Ten thousand sorrows that she might never fear, might never hurt, might never weep.

He wanted to go to every place she had ever felt sadness and whisper his love in her heart,

To wrap her in his arms, take the venom in his own veins, to receive each blow.

It was not pity but love that drove this thought; he knew she was strong, stronger even than himself,

But there was something wild and hard in his spirit that would face down any hell

That had ever learned her name, would destroy any sadness; he would find her in any storm.

Though it was beyond the power of his body to scale that impenetrable wall

And grasp the immovable hands; it was not beyond the reach of his love.

Time could keep grinding along its relentless path, a glacier marching steadily on

But his love had wings stronger than any time, hands gentler than soft dreams.

He would love her until the sadness melted like frost in the strong, morning light.

He would fill her so deeply that there was no longer any place for pain.

He would slay every memory of hurt in the soft, strong hands of his love,

Until the diaries of sadness were lost completely and the place of their hiding forgotten,

Until the bindings of their pages cracked and faded and withered into dust.

He would love her until her heart was full and overflowing with the letters of love,

Volume after volume, piled and stacked; page after page of the story of their lives,

The chronicles of their love unfolding like blossoms in wild shades and colors,

Chapters of sunrise after sunrise and sunsets fading into the dark arms of night.

He would write the poetry of passion on every wall in the flowing hand of their eyes and lips,

In the strong, bold hand of their bodies, flexed and joined, one living, breathing thing.

One life shared so deeply, lived and loved so closely that all boundaries dissolved,

All roots entwined, all lines blurred and faded, their hearts knit together; one pulsing beat in two chests.

Each day he would love her this way, each day he would pour his life into her open heart.