Tim Huijts

You are more than the poem, you are the paper where it meets the pen, the tip pressed down, releasing ink to make words real, felt in every fibre of your being, cupping the weight of my hand as I lace you with shining darkness, black-blue storms brought to calm in your bruises

Your heartbeat rhymes with my breathing, and your skin reads my veins through your coat, finding the words your cheeks speak of, as silence's pulse whispers 'still, still', and the floor creaks the thunder I swallow

Half facing the shelves, your cheek has seen my eyes,and through your hair your earlobe whispers, the air all touch as you slowly pull the spines; your thumb reads the embossing worn blind, the scent of leather fills your palm, and I breathe in your words as your wrist lays them down in your pocket.

photo of a lone tree in an autumn field.

unscatter me, fields
flock me home

One blackbird sang us both to sleep. In that field alone, time froze; not from humming with history, but because you had passed by, a flame-hair garlanding the hedge, perfume lingering, our hands touching in space, not in time. One book in my lap on the bus, one glance in passing; nearly, but never.

And our touch sparks night's imagined stars, each a burning thought of missing you. I miss you more than stars can shine, than night can hide, than words can dream. Our story lives, until my last breath.

The gasp of the heart, still, when reading your words, finding us there; soft and hard, vulnerable, accepted, ourselves, at last. Words, but such words. Yours, mine. Ours. Your memories meet mine, in fields of darkest indigo, the colour of missing you, missing us (1/2);

The spice and sweet of your first burning sip; the eyelid's flutter before the fearless gaze; fabric kissing your wrist when your thumb needs your lips; the lamenting crisp of a closing page; dusk dragonfly wing-shimmer, felt more than seen.

photo of trees over a leaf-covered path.

Russet dreams
of an eye-blue sky,
the smile in your step,
and your hair springing fall
as we walk

photo of spines of various second-hand books.

new old books -
the scent of autumn leaves
and apple blossom

Reading with you, the page-crisp quiet, the warmth of your nearness, our breathing of hushed words, the coffee-steeped café enveloping us; and bookhunting together, our coats holding autumn, seeing treasures in your eyes as your fingers graze the spines - yes, I still dream of that, too.

photo of harp-shaped shadows.

on night's heartstrings
my shadow strokes
your light to life

My hand against the cold pane, feeling our flame through the glass, watching the waxen tears trickle; and through the blizzard, you blanket me in your smile, as I warm you with mute words. Yes, my love is forever.

'But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you'
-W.B. Yeats

You bring such beauty, dearest soul. Please be you; still, always. You are seen, through your words, your being. One man basked in you, and his skin, his veins, still glow with you. If only you knew what you meant, and mean still. And if only he could live his heart's words, and make you whole.

photo of a shadow-streaked path with three golden leaves.

my light says she is shadow
but lies golden at my feet

My fingers feel the pulse of your words, your page sighs as I turn it, your spine settles in my hands; and in my gaze you come to life, my eyes delighting in you, my soul breathing as it reads you, finding itself.

I stroke the midnightblue smudge of your ink, my thumb tracing the brush of your hand, the paper still exhaling your wrist, and close my eyes to feel you in the dark, the room rolling on the tide of your breathing; I smile and whisper: they have a need beyond need, our souls; one candle, two flames.

Dance free, soul of souls, by the shore of my breathing, through closed eyes I see you, my pulse feels your pace; pour out for me, raise your waves, steep me in you, swirl my humming to words with the hem of your dress, quench my gale with the sway of one whisper.

"My destiny has been that I remember and must weave together, must plait into one cable the many threads, the thin, the thick, the broken, the enduring of our long history, of our tumultuous and varied day.”
Virginia Woolf, The Waves

Not a day without remembering you. Not one.

"Because for the first time in years, his whole life, perhaps, Henry doesn't feel cursed at all. For the first time, he feels seen.”
V.E. Schwab, The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue

"How then does light return to the world after the eclipse of the sun? Miraculously. Frailly.”
-Virginia Woolf, The Waves

I carry it with me, this quiet image, through the din of trains and corridors, through rain-thrashed cobbled alleys: your thumb lingering on the page's fresh cut, your fingertips fragrant with coffee and paper, new old words eye-stroked, breath-caressed; your hand, and mine near.

into the blue

I understand. Yes, I remembered. I always do; I always will. And yes, the ache of missing is there, very much, and always will be. You do exist. And so do I. Thank you, too. Still. Always.

And words even, words that I knew, and still want to know, as soul-deep. I lost half of me, and I know I did that myself; but more so, it felt that I lost the understanding, the knowing, of this half I lost. And now, here, I see this half of me, but don't know if it really exists.

I don't know what it really meant. It's not about blame; I would understand the bits and pieces of it. It just made me question everything I thought I knew: this complete knowing, understanding, this being home and whole, finally, despite anything, no matter how distant, how seemingly alone;

The silence of songs for other ears, of the call and response of posts, of a 'you' that wasn't me.

photo of a house at dusk, with dark windows on the ground floor showing a warm orange light, and four windows on the first floor brightly reflecting the dusk light in the west.

Megara: 'Wait for worse? You love the light so much?'
Amphitryon: 'I do, I love its hopes.'
–Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides
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