For Nothing More Than a Look of Me

dusktilldawn

      I hear your breath beside me.

I know in that rhythm lie entwined

all my stories which I’m still to write.

I’ll probably say very little tomorrow,

nothing more than a ‘morning,

       then, a hug.

.

But you are the common thread in everything.

.

      I know, from far away in the hall, 

you will sit with your cup of tea

and look at me, once with every sip,

for nothing more than a glimpse of me.

If that’s not enough love for a life,

         what possibly is? 

Kultur Tava

Don’t we complicate our lives too much? 

With our desire for more, and then for much more, for affirmations, and then reaffirmations. For a continuous acknowledgment that not only do we matter, but - that we matter more than anybody else. It’s not enough to be together; we want words which confirm that our togetherness matters. We want cards, messages, heart-shaped emojis, birthday presents, outings, likes to our posts. Things which can be seen or talked about. Our feelings can’t only be felt, they need to take the route of the tangible.

We exist in a  chaos of desire. 

And. In the process, ignoring, time and again,  what comes unobtrusively, on soft padded paws, in ways which often can’t be seen - but can always be felt, if we only stop to breathe and notice,

Both of you quietly reading your own books, as she slowly slides onto your shoulder into sleep. She working on her desk on a Sunday, and you walking upto the door, checking her out, and leaving quietly. Both of you listening to the same music, one AirPod each. Holding hands because they are there to be held. Looking at the same painting for long minutes and then turning to find that both of you have tears in your eyes. Turning back in the middle of a fight into a hug.

In our litany of anguish we are often in search of redemption, but stay to linger in wounds. So how do we acknowledge tough times?

By not bothering her when her brows are knitted, to not admonish him when things go wrong, to listen (really listen) when he complains, to be a weathervane to moods, to be grateful for the good times and see one’s being fill up with grace.

The little things, the smallest littlest things. To be alive to their possibility and their manifestation. To know that if you have to think about the last day of your life, it would be no more, and no less, than spending time with both your feet out in the sun, dozing sporadically, but her hand in yours, and talking of what passes as feelings, fleeting, of how through the drudgery and heartbreak of life, both of you are still able to find each other's simple beauty of presence.

Love really is the quietest feeling in the world.

dusktilldawn

Hear the poem!!

Hear these other poems too, on the quiet joy of love:

Giovanni Esposito

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