She stood in the garden, alone, and spoke aloud.
"I so wish I could hear your voice again. There's just a snippit left in my head...it's been so long.
The quirky laugh, so nonchalant, as I remember, questions requiring deeper thought, and yet the answers were always so easy.
The tone which I at first never expected but later identified with you and only you...and still do..if I were to only hear it again...match it to that snippit I play over and over again more times than I care to admit...well then   maybe then I would feel how I  felt the last time we spoke.... Like I was vital, loved, scared, and yet safe all at the same time. Sometimes...but only on a very rare occasion, do I wish that I could turn that snippit off. Just so I wouldn't have to miss you for a moment or two. "
"And who has loved like this ? " she asks herself pitifully.
" Only me."-...she whispered in self reply, as he listened quietly from behind the northern wall, never making a sound, before turning and going on about his day.
Just as one lone tear waters the gardenia.

Awakening at 4 am for a needed touch. The stillness requires it, the quiet calls for it, the darkness outright demands it. Expectant, quivering, and ...done. 4:03. Alone.

On a sermon note,  when I guess I should have been listening, I scribbled a poem years ago that I now find in a long neglected book I used to smuggle in every Sunday. A stoic book and in the folds I find the never published long forgotten write of an imagined future day that fate holds from above just out of grasp. That sparkling jewel of hope. A day with darting eyes and deep swallows, heaving hidden breaths, electric thoughts. Two of the corners are shriveled now , one side requiring unrolling the see the last words of each line. Interjected words here and there to change the nuance just a bit. Truth is in there, pleasure too. Between the space of whispered glances and a final goodbye. Wonder what it all means now. I can't quite wrap my head around it much like the sermon of that day. So I will leave it with Pope, right in the middle of the Windsor Forest, "to consult the dead and live past ages o'er."

Those thoughts, that we once lit upon, in such a rage,
(Oh!  how ablaze they once were and Oh! how quick they flew)
Scribbled posthaste onto the now much duller page,
To immortalize- as only the penned word can do.
And so, if ever apt,... regress to way back when,
(at least for a time, at least in mind,...return alone)
To dig them from their coffers - let them live again,
all of the greatest passions our souls had ever known;
To resurrect the fire that only youth can start,
(Recover- , a breathless moment or a wanton gaze)
Exhume instead- , a tear, shed from a lifeless heart,
To bestow the elegy of our departed days.

It gets much easier the more I do it
Harder to love the less it's known
Like a wind, I blow right through it
This life, a life content, a life alone.

Just how many movies can a girl watch in a lifetime anyway ?
Funny how I have been most of the characters at some point in my life.
I've actually just recently progressed from the pathetic Bridget Jones
to Fat Amy in "How to be Single."...or perhaps Tom in the same flick.
  
I find it twisted yet somehow quite revolutionary the way my mind works.

Anyway... There are no sleepovers. I have no desire to cuddle strangers.

Another bizarre premiere.

'Twas not a death of ceaseless breathing,
But rather one of love deceiving,
From which the soul did die.
And by doing so, then guided pleasure,
To a grave no one could measure,
Beneath a weary sky.
Without a stake even for its leaving,
Or further thought of its conceiving,
It quietly held its own,
Appearing no worse for the heaving
Sighing less heavily while bereaving,
A spot no tree had grown.