There were once words.
A comfortable stringing together to make sense of what would otherwise be too chaotic.
Over time a loss of these little stitches that thread comfort.
How to be with the most exquisite aches without voice?
Inevitable process that is in herself the divinity of all things feminine.
And yet, somehow proof of pain, proof of love is something I seek.
Seeking to know that loss is real, and the heavy and the impossible, is quite possible.
Magma of longing and loving leads to a pouring.
Pouring of silent discussions, grasping for the pearls that might be located on a map somewhere.
The map perhaps found in the tight throat, and the soundless tears, and the cherishing of what actually happened.