I sat here because asked me to. It wasn’t where I wanted to be.

In darkness I waited, spun hope on a tomorrow, watched the door. I cut cloth, the hours, days, weeks. I divvied and dividing until I had something manageable, malleable, something I could hold onto. I shared.

By counting out, I kept control. I pretended.

But you did not come.

Waiting can be artistry and I have a creator’s heart.

I poured my life into each moment’s fullness without you. I let myself be consumed by the emptiness, let my heart grow strong, so I’d love you all the better when you came. Magic needs must begin with a void so I emptied myself for you.

But you did not come.

I wove my passion, slivers of this and that between my fingers and loved them as I bound them, married them, made them beautiful.

We spent hours, them and I – those spirit dancers in my hands that turned and twisted like secrets, happy whispers. They were the company I kept when I wanted no competitor to you.

The colours learned life as they spun, brightening like stories, thickening dreams. They longed, yearned as I did, waited on the beginning. They touched me.

But for you I unpicked them, let all unravel and sat still to wait.

Suns rose and fell. Moons beamed, bowed and sickened but I did not turn to look. I did not let the mirror speak of the sadness in my eyes.

I listened only for you. There was I alone, and in that there was space and time for only you.

But you slipped lose, skipped the stories end. You did not come, brought no disguise. You did not play your part in surprising me.

You sent just a few words, well packed with my sorrow and tears. You could not find time to talk. You were held up elsewhere, missed the boat.

And then there was nothing. Just the darkness and the earth deep drop.

When finally I knew, I mourned my might-have-beens, the set aside seasons and tapestries I passed over, wishing and waiting for you.

In pain grows philosophy. What’s done is done.

After this death has died off, I will unpick, start fresh, find fruit in this tangle.

The skipped stitch can draw the eye to something remarkable. The hole holds the thread. Who knows how the pattern is meant to run?

You. You have nothing to birth. No life to bring me.

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