I am old news.

Once my pages were not thin and worn, but crisped the fingertips with mystery and stories yet to be read.

My writing was not worn; the strokes, unblemished.

Like a crunch and crack of a bite into whole fruit, I invited you without even knowing.


Now, my quickening has ceased and it does not matter that the way of all things ushers it so.

Your eyes seek newness, and a bloom of words on the tongue that I cannot strike.
It seems my stories have become withered, unlike our hands that I hoped would stay clasped until we were old.
They shake before our time, Dear Heart.

Loneliness was not a familiar guest in my modern pages until moments ago, in our time.
Yet, it warms my cup now and nestles in, as two friends who continue a conversation of yore.
It knows milk and no sugar for me, lights a fire in the brick, and begins to read the familiar stories in my pages of which IT never tires.

Mysteries must be zigs and worlds of zags, it seems.
Else, they reek of an Old Queen's blankets and her luggage rides heavy.
Wisdom flees in this light and recedes backward, away from us, you and I, leaving two children one with outstretched hand, the other with Janus's eyes looking into two.

I want for you though you are near me. My heart aches to hold the whole of yours again.
You think I do not know.
You think I do not.
You think.

Nevertheless, I refuse abandon the sojourn.
I am.
I am still the one who will remain, my love, though I recognized many times ago that it is my place to never be too far from sorrow.
Yet, in these moments it came in your letters, quite unexpected.
The base and bulwarck of my feet and hands shook.

Convincing the doubt is monumental.
It was thought these things had passed this in life.
It was a happy, forgotten time until the ghosts and shadows crept into my parlour unannounced, and sat in your chair.

I am.
You may see.
For without it, my heart is sad.
Of your bread I eat the crust and the whole, the heel and the loaf.
Yet, there is always sorrow.
It greets me in passages of words you speak without my ears hearing.
Angst both wild and alarming that never stumbled leaps around my room with abandon, sounding its klaxon and shrill shriek of fear.

I never thought again, it would find me.
I did not even think I need run.
Yet, the Raven's promise of Nevermore shattered all to pieces like so many shards
of sun-weathered, plastic bowls, and faded yellow rooms.

I pondered over you, never forgetting your lore.
But mine no longer vibrates and hums beneath the veil.

It lies still in your eyes though its pulse runs as sure and fast as ever.
It needs your recognition to live, and with every moment of loneliness,
the heart of it creaks down a stairway of hidden sorrow.

I no longer am.
I am old.
I am past.

I have always known that I would be never too far from sorrow.
But your inscription of it stings, my love.

We sit still and dormant, waiting for the spring's return of a fortifying new grace.

URL: http://thegypsyshadow.blogspot.com/2012/07/the-creakings-of-door.html