I haven’t seen you for a while.
I think you’ve forgotten my touch.
Nobody patches up your bruises like I do… nobody knows the lemon-butter-oil to rub into your wounds.
Your edges are grey, worn, faded even. But you are young to me–young as the day you were born.
Where have you been running off to? Playing in the brooks? Hiding in a closet?
I never left you. I couldn’t leave if I tried. I’m your mother, silly.
So you were waiting for me? Waiting on a street-corner, umbrellas kept you from melting?
Only witches melt in the rain, you innocent.
Strangers and damp lofts. Darkness and doubt.
Take my hand? I’ve missed you on the inside–like an oven gone cold, nothing’s been baking.
I’ll help you across the street if you like. Take my arm, we’ll walk slow.
Tell me of your life. Maybe I’ll tell you of mine. I’ll tell you of the nothing I did while you were growing up life.
We’ve been loving in our ways. Sometimes the sweetest love is the One that sticks around.
He told me where to find you. He said when the running was over–there I’d be standing there. So I came to find you. To take you home.
Show me the way–it’s been so long.
I remember this… the way you walk and skip over stones. Your black eyes shine like stars. You have had more life than I. Don’t leave me behind.
I’m trying… but I’m so afraid–hold my hand? Please?
Yeah, nope, this post makes no sense. Call it the product of midnight and Faulkner and self-indulgence. Good’night.
~Tenderly Till Tomorrow