Ours

Darkness swept over me, stealing my voice, and in the hush- chaos was unleashed. I ached and toiled for resolve in the silence, afraid to invite anyone in- even my most intimate friend. I was haunted by death and birth in the night, tangible life and the slipping of it.

Yes, darkness swept over me.

I could not speak. I, such a lover of words, could not apply language to the depth of this gloom, nor find an origin to the grief that struck. I became cold in the quiet, harboring friction of soul, progressively unable to open. Days turned to weeks. I cringed in isolation, aching for someone- anyone- to touch the ache, but it alluded even me. Shades of grey sat weighty within, breaking the back of hope and peace, but in my most desperate moment, tenderness met me through the gentle countenance of my most cherished companion. His touch and confession of the sting of this chill and the influence of this darkness resurrected my voice. The dam broke. Pain spilled from my soul and poured from my eyes. The chaos of night burst forth and I could see. Grief I thought I had relinquished gushed from me with fury. . . but he steadied me, with the safety of his arms, and as I gazed into his eyes- moist with emotion- I realized that this loss, this night. . . this ache is not my own. It is ours.