Tired

[emmengard]

Tired, finally, like a rung out sponge.

Not the tired of a broken mind and a disjointed life;

not the tired of the choking fog of despair.

 

Tired like a long day, and a lot of thinking.

Tired like a good night sleep might actually solve everything this time,

instead of just serving as a fleeting escape from life.

Tired like a gray sky and the promise of spring in the air.

 

And thoughts, soft and hard to grasp,

like the whisper of old dead leaves, crumbling and falling apart in the wind.

And I can feel you here with me, the breath of you,

the dream and soul of you

and I wish we could hold hands across the infinite distance between us;

that we could touch in this world, in this place and time, this realm of solid things.

Yet it there is so much more I am looking for.

It is never the hand we wish to hold, not really.

 

We are seeking the shape of a mind, the color of a dream, the breath of a soul.

We are seeking in one another something impossibly remote,

something deep and hidden even from ourselves.

-Sylvia