|Posted on April 28, 2022 at 5:20 PM|
Is it better to know the hour of your death, or to live as if you will never die? If I had known that my world was about to be turned upside down…would I have opened the door? He has killed before – this stealthy hunter of the heart. What makes me think I am strong enough – that I can handle whatever awaits? Whatever it is pushes me out and into the storm. Even though we have not yet met this time – I would recognize him always. It is in the eyes. Does he recognize me? I thought so, but maybe I was wrong.
He told me things about his life, secrets I let myself imagine were only for me. When I left – no, I didn’t really leave, I still did not know it was my last chance to escape. He asked me to stay – I could not. But of course, like the moth to a flame, I returned. This time by bus – I was late – he was scared – he thought I might have been blown up – it happens here sometimes.
More talking, more dreaming, more moonlight on the Galilee. He asked me what I knew of him – I said I knew I was safe. He told me I was wrong (he was right), that I don’t really know him (he was wrong). He thought he would scare me. Foolishly, I still think I am stronger than all his demons. I told him that I was sorry he had been hurt so badly that his only companion was fear.
He said being with him would mess me up – a self-fulfilling prophecy. In pushing me away, he sealed my fate (that wasn’t the cruelest thing), I just didn’t know it yet (which was more than cruel). He sacrificed my heart on the alter of his cowardice. I did not know it until I left. Then it did not take long for me figure out something had gone terribly wrong. My sheep in wolves clothing had disappeared, leaving a hole where my heart should have been.
How many tears does it take to wash away a memory? No, not a memory – lifetimes of memories – soul memories. Not enough yet. I know he has followed my life and reads my words. Breadcrumbs I leave, hoping he will find his way back home.
Now, I am back at the scene of the crime.
Just a train or a bus and a couple of hours could take me there. But this time he won’t be waiting, worried I had been blown up (it happens here sometimes). Is it better to know the hour of your death or to live your life as if you are never going to die?
Categories: My Poetry and other thoughts