Wistful

Sometimes there are just not words enough to place thoughts and feelings into space and time. Memories and the past seem to get jumbled into a head and heart by the passing of time and as the days and years go by, they stack one on another, like well worn books. Dust collects and certain pages stick together as you tell and re-tell yourself the stories as they didn't happen but wished they had. Age lends a patina and golden glow to events that brought so much confusion and pain. And in the reminiscing and heart's journey, somehow the truth gets lost.

Some days I walk back into those rooms in my head, the ones I rarely visit and have been kept closed and silent for all these years. I breathe deep the familiar smells and cast my eyes slowly over each memento stored there against hope and then with a resigned sigh, shrug the shoulders of my mind and walk slowly out, pulling the door firmly closed behind me with a resolute and hushed 'snick'.

Walking back down the hall, I cannot help but to think, that if I had someone to go there with me, that I may...just may be able to enter those places one day with the courage to throw back the shrouded curtains and let the streaming sunshine of reality cast its cleansing gleam over innocence lost and dreams shattered. Each piece laid carefully aside. Each thought so carefully gathered and stored, nestled in all my yesterdays.

All those pictures in my head. Faces and places gone now. The wistful tears and unfilled promises. The horrible nights and loneliness. Each pain, hurt and fear slowly swept into polished wooden boxes and placed gently on shelves. So much beauty surrounded by so many instances of loss. Where have they all gone? Who is this boy whose large solemn eyes stare wistfully back into mine? That face forever captured. Rare smiles and quiet nods. Years lost in silence and to books. Head bent over a piano, slender hands and fingers moving slowly, each note capturing what his heart could never bring up out of his chest and to his lips. Hoping, praying, wishing that some one would rescue him, would love him, would want more than the only thing he had to offer.

That boy still lives in those rooms. Shut off from the world. Different ages and times. His eyes and face change with time, but still those brown eyes ask, "Will you love me for me?"

I miss him and so wish I could reach out across that space from the doorway to where he sits staring at the floor and let him know that he is not alone. I will never leave him. I will always love him. When all are gone, I remain.

I am him.

daemon