Darkling, I listen
Here I sit alone, nowhere to take my longing but an empty page, no one to hold my crashing head, filled with memories this Cosmos craves constantly to scratch away — half in love with her and half with the profound conveyance of easeful Death.
Darkling, n. being in the dark, or without light — Webster’s (1898).
Darkness is still a strange new topography for me, unlike any vast sweeping desert, ocean, or mountain range I can see or imagine. A miasmic sort of void that clings to the skin and clouds the mind, slowly erasing the sparkle of her eyes, the softness of her touch — her countenance now shadow this morning turned. And yet I journey this dream of life, half knowing and half not, torn between and betwixt — within and without — by a fate without precedent, a bond that, despite the retrograde, intensifies.
Here I sit together with no means to correspond, no sense among but these five to perceive. Just these fleeting words read by a longsuffering soulmate, in imperceptible omnipresence, and through the blinding noise of humanity, dying to hear her faint familiar words whispered warmly again in my ear, “Darling, I’m listening.”
By D. Bowman | Nomina Numina is a journal of my reflections, moments, and meaning-making between worlds. Reply by email.