He has not known peace in a long time, and his eyes often grow dark. I know he belonged to someone, not to me, and I'm jealous of her in secret… I know he doesn't sleep at night. Every dream is a purgatory of his fears. Weeping in silence, but not outward— tears are shed within his heart. And he speaks endlessly, yet says nothing, each time I come to him. His silence turns me bitter. I feel small and unnecessary. He probably loves me, though only for a moment, now and then. Perhaps a day will come when he will suddenly discover that he loves another, and she will be the woman worthy to bear the burden of that sorrow, nested behind his forehead where she made her home. And he will tell her everything for which I asked him without words. From this moment on it burns and forges my heart like an armour of ice. It seems to have turned to stone, and bears pain relentlessly, but this time, as it has grown worse, it will shatter early—even sooner. And that's all.
# The One I Met I met a man on the street one day— he carried sorrow like a stone in his pocket, worn smooth by the years of his hand. His eyes held the color of winter rain, that gray that speaks of things forgotten, of roads not taken, of words left unsaid. He smiled, though his smile was a cautious thing, the way a door opens just wide enough to let the light through, but not the warmth. I asked him where he was going. He said he didn't know anymore, that the map had faded, the compass had stopped, and he was simply moving, like water that has learned it must flow. We walked together for a while— not speaking much, for words seemed too loud in the presence of such quietness. I noticed his hands: they trembled slightly, as though still reaching for something just beyond the reach of reaching. When we parted, he pressed that stone into my palm—smooth, heavy, warm from the long keeping of it. He said: *Take this. It's lighter when shared.* I have carried it ever since, and sometimes I understand what he meant, and sometimes, in the dark, I do not.
Share this article