So when my crane wife flew away to warmer climes, I began to fear for the strength of our bond.
Yes, it was a terribly stupid thing for me to think that there was anyone to replace me. But I thought so, nonetheless.
Today, my crane wife flew back to me. I don't think I can count the span of how long she has been away in months or minutes, seconds or semesters. I think that the only way we can count how long she has been away for is by the tears she saw when she returned.
Wrapped up in the coil of her long, flowing ideas, she returned to me, just the same as when she left. It was like there was never a breath that came between us. She still fit the same; one curve still felt moulded into the other and each hug felt a like a dress that never needed altering. It felt like not a day had passed since the last bone crunching hug and not a week had gone by since I heard her familiar tones-- familiar words rendered in familiar ways.
Her hands are the same little carriers of warmth and solidarity and to see her form behind the familiar tablescape of coffee glass, sugar bowl and grimy glasses of water was too much for my fox-trotting heart to bear. There she was: resplendent with the glow of four rich months of academic skinny dipping. She was the same. She is the same.
And she still loves me.
And she loves me.
And she always will love me.
The curve of her presumption that we will be the same, no matter what was as shocking as a grand jete and as beautiful. Her nest has grown and accommodates considerably more people but I still find myself in the inner sanctum, whenever I take the time-- or clear the jealousy long enough to look around.
My crane wife.
As wide as your wingspan may be, I love how you make the most comfortable little ring around me.
Yes, it was a terribly stupid thing for me to think that there was anyone to replace me. But I thought so, nonetheless.
Today, my crane wife flew back to me. I don't think I can count the span of how long she has been away in months or minutes, seconds or semesters. I think that the only way we can count how long she has been away for is by the tears she saw when she returned.
Wrapped up in the coil of her long, flowing ideas, she returned to me, just the same as when she left. It was like there was never a breath that came between us. She still fit the same; one curve still felt moulded into the other and each hug felt a like a dress that never needed altering. It felt like not a day had passed since the last bone crunching hug and not a week had gone by since I heard her familiar tones-- familiar words rendered in familiar ways.
Her hands are the same little carriers of warmth and solidarity and to see her form behind the familiar tablescape of coffee glass, sugar bowl and grimy glasses of water was too much for my fox-trotting heart to bear. There she was: resplendent with the glow of four rich months of academic skinny dipping. She was the same. She is the same.
And she still loves me.
And she loves me.
And she always will love me.
The curve of her presumption that we will be the same, no matter what was as shocking as a grand jete and as beautiful. Her nest has grown and accommodates considerably more people but I still find myself in the inner sanctum, whenever I take the time-- or clear the jealousy long enough to look around.
My crane wife.
As wide as your wingspan may be, I love how you make the most comfortable little ring around me.
Drops of Jupiter
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