I let my body paint the story. My hands trace our beginning within space, my hips circle into spirals dancing our story that never ends.
Our story that never ends but takes different shapes each year.
This year shaped into absence, the space that remained, missing;
From too much to a lack of feeling. From so much suffering to a strange quietness.
This year I integrated our ending in my bones with a complete acceptance that some endings are certain. That there is a kind of love which will never unfold the same way again. But that it is one which can be preserved into our cells and molecules, into our skin, a love that could never be severed or removed.
A love that is better within. So let it feed us what we need.
A love that we both held onto for longer than necessary, longing and grieving the ending we knew was coming.
A year almost complete, you are last to let go.
The world swallows what is pure and spits it back up into a lie, distortions. I tried to fight it, I tried to tell you that I see the god in us, and you have seen it too. And despite my fighting, what was pure became muddied water, salt tears like a sea heaving, we were drowned.
I have seen the ending in us before we even began but I starved myself of Truth in order to satisfy you, to love you – albeit knowing it was temporary.
Anyway
this year is ending and the distance expands daily.
I let my body tell the story. My body will never forget.
You’re the last thing to let go of.
This year is ending like we did, but you see –
it is only a composting
we will never forget.
what remained
is still there in us
the tiniest of lights that glows
in this deep numb winter darkness
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