Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.
Her silence, deafening, conjures into greater articulation each day; each word setting upon that foolish heart given over to her so long ago now.
So long ago.
Each word a word you do not wish to hear but must hear; each word a truth you do not wish to know for they are truths so far from those you once believed.
And those truths, and those words, are these:
From you I have known only love unconditional, so my silence must not be borne of fear. I once said I loved you but we know some truths, you and I, and truth is if you love another you do not put him away from you utterly. And if you put him away then truth is you do not love him. One may presume there is no economy of the heart but there is one such economy and it is that.
I do not love you and while you may love me I retain no faith in that love for if I did I would know it never predicated upon possessing me but rather lived of its own accord, eternal and resolute. I would reach back out even one time and grasp the hand which has reached out to me unfailingly in this year of my silence.
Your heart to me might have been given but I do not care to know of it, or of any pieces of your life. This heart and these things I have put away from me and each day put away further still, and that you send them plaintively into the void each day is, you must know, futile, foolish notions on the wings of the miner’s canary, which we both know will not bear good tidings in return. Will not return at all.
Such are the words of her silence, and you bear them with you unto each new day until your last, delighting in those faintest slivers of intoxication which bridge our unconscious and conscious states, that evanescent Fiddler’s Green of unknowing, those precious few moments where there is nothing but love. For then consciousness wakes, knowing wakes, and that love is met with resonant silence, her love a myth and like Sisyphus you rise up each day to meet your duty.