February 11, 23 Is that the wind? Or my own hungry cold heart worrying the window? How does wind blow so horribly on a sunshiny day where the blue throbs and the ice pricks and my eyes water? How can the need grow in a full heart?
It was the wind. It groaned and whined so much, the house replied. With a roar of heavy oil, its furnace fired up and thundered water, copper veins and arteries. Drowning out the cold wind song in my ears but the snow doesn't hear, or care? How can it, it has no ears, no heart. But I do. I care a lot. I hear it all. My blood replies it utters it's own retort, rushing from my heart to my hands and my cheeks. Flushed I whisper. I shush it all. Settle down, my heart. Hush, my house. Be still, oh wind and weather. Listen.
A tiny tiny tap tap ting rings without tune or rhythm in a purple-black night scape. A little whispered secret voice says something out in there under cover of thick deathly cosy dark. Rhyme hark. Say Yes. I hear you. I want you. In all this silent need I have to have you. Come. Now. Oh hurry. Before the wind before my heart my hunger my burning furnace light up and I'm lost in it. Come take. Give. Be given. Taken. Let's be held. Let be holders. To have habbendum till parting does us dead.
Eating makes me hungry, loving makes me lonely. You're so soft it hurts my feelings. Aha. The noise is back. Thank god. I couldn't stand another moment of thinking. The noise is blank. Thank you I could not stand another night of seeing. The noise wash drowns the mountain. Thank love. I couldn't thirst another drop.
Well. That was deep.