Where We Are Together

Sometimes I sing to her - death, my mother. Woman of my uncried tears. Woman of the night.

It’s numbing how I long for her. A yearning that runs so deep, that I wonder if she could quite literally break my heart. Suck me dry of all my blood, and history, and sensuality, and time.

I’m told - though I can not hear - that she weeps for me. Weeping willow for all she couldn't say. All so woven tightly into her monotone gray colored dresses. Asking me to reach for her. To speak her name across my lips.

And this confuses me, because my tongue burns from the repetition of her name in my mouth, again and again. I call to her. Asking her to hold me. To touch me.

To meet me in the river. The place where we remember. Where longing longs for nothing. Where we are together.