Tell me how I’ve come to be like this, my love, writing tortured prose, expecting resurrection just like that.
I am not entitled to the gods, nor is it a right of mine to keep you as I do.
The greatest sign, most emblematic emblem of affection is to cling by way of lenience and calm.
I have, thuswise, resigned myself to losing you forever.
Over the hill in the distance which precedes the path to me, pipe-smoking penman at the door, eyes trained to notice you, your body climbing the stepping stones and mounting into my consciousness anew, fresh like summer harvests or the anvil-chime of the church bells an Eternity away, I see you now, again, as safe and yet as questionable as you shall ever be.
It is solely for the reason and the fact that I accept that you must go, and write myself obituaries with the brittle shards of my pencil cloven by misuse and proper use alike—there are still pieces with which to tell you how I care, still fragments of a man to whom you return every day—that you come back to me glinting in the eyes, and laughing, so preposterously happy that the mourning heart in outcry and in pain is left choiceless and saved, for it tastes again, as doth the grass that blankets all inhabitable places, populates the dead face of the Earth with vibrant colour and tenacity, the dew of godly Mercy, water of departure, wet as Spring is wet, drenched in the flood and rush of reclamation made possible only by loss.