And so it is, the silence. For which is all completely mine,
the blank,
the nothing, neither structure, nor a void,
a solitude so profound, so great, it must be achieved,
not bludgeoned into,
A blank landscape in which I paint what I may,
undisturbed by your words I embrace your nothingness,
and I wait, and I breath,
and know,
that you do not remember me,
but I remember you,
I hold in total pristine,
your blank canvas and ponder what I may mark,
what I may paint,
what uninhibited freedoms I may to take to fulfill all things, all desires, all wants, because I know you so heartbreakingly well,
an exhaustion,
but I dare not disturb the silence,
not for a cry, not for a roar for it must be birthed of you,
But please understand, I remember you,
not your face, not your touch, surely not your voice,
the feeling you give me, I cannot bring forth through our sounds, our symbols,
it is not an understanding, but a realization,
if you only knew how the wind feels when I think of you,
you would resurrect , you would remember,
the feeling you gave me, thousands of years ago,
there is no memory of this,
only the essence remains,
the latent vibrations that exist only in the frequency that you flood me with,
a sensation only wrought forth in the breath and the stare of an old soul,
a tired soul that has loved much,
a soul has hurt much
and is all but one percent gold