When you're quiet, you can hear echoes; questions rolling over each other like water.

Did I give too much?

Will I ever be able to see?

Why, when I'm tired, or afraid, do I always look for the same place?

How is it, that I can stand on the edge of a precipice, and feel safe?

I had this friend whose voice I loved to fall into. It was like crawling into a cave, a respite during a long journey.

He would watch me as I entered.

"hi"

My skin would relax and I knew what it meant to belong.

Deep, long breath.

"hi"

Hours would blur into moments, and any storm passing outside became no longer fearful, but a story to share.

My need, his grandeur. His emptiness, my watering hole.

Even though he is gone now, sometimes I forget, and still want to crawl back in. It's a secret refuge to miss.

But perpetual longing leaves us sick.

So the strong look at the burnt place on the cave floor, mourn over the ash pile that once held a fire of light and warmth, take the blackness that sits on the heart, and add it to the ashes. Then return to the path outside. Bitter roots dug out of the earth sustain the first stretch of the journey, until one traverses the rocky passes, and reaches the spacious places.

But sometimes I grow weary of waiting for them.

Love, Tracey

P.S. Though this holds some similarities with my real life, I have taken author's license for impact and experimentation.

P.P.S. That is my disclaimer to avoid feeling overexposed.