If your story does not hold up in the light,  then you will spend the rest of your life in the dark.

Rising from the core, the air balloons in her throat
A gasp escapes her lips
Quiet like a butterfly
No one notices she's amiss

She lives her life in these moments
Unsure what is real, what is not
Everyday a routine
She wonders will she ever stop

Privileged, she experienced the other
A side of life often unlived
Discovery of a person
Perhaps she was meant to give

Separated by life, love, and sadness
Her heart is now confused
A future fuzzy and grey
Her mind battered and bruised

And so the cycle continues
Each day a mind divided
One life of rules and commitment
The other of souls united

She carried them about,
stones in her pockets.
Each one a little secret.

The weight of them
distracting her in conversations.
The bulk of them
effecting her posture.
They would knock
when she would walk.

While she could manage
the slight though ever present
force they exerted
she was perpetually terrified
that one day,
in the midst of some random encounter,
a small hole would
open up
allowing them to tumble out.

They did eventually become too heavy
and the pressure of them
made a space
where
sickness poured in
taking their place.

Stones in the pockets
was not the official diagnosis.
But that's what killed her.
I know
because I watched it.

And I miss her.  
That one woman who loved me
unconditionally.
I need her at times
like now.

I carry no stones of my own
and I am not afraid of holes
but
sometimes
we need the kind of love
that has no strings
like when the other kinds
wish to bury us.