I talked with a female friend today,
very open, intimate conversation.
I heard the secret plea to be understood
by anyone, but especially by me.
But it was not to be as it should,
for within my listening I hid my secret,
my carefully crafted empathy
reached no deeper then my fear.
The world spun around us
and the street played busy,
noisy with hurry,
strangers rushing by.
Our conversation played out with measure,
talk and then listen and then talk again,
metered with appropriate responses,
our words became like notes on a score.
My body spoke its own language,
what message did I send,
what discourse did I present,
did I pause in my refrain?
Her woundedness like torn clothing
draped upon her life like an orphan's.
My fear refused to let me parent,
refused to let me comfort her with touch.
Her words held on to me
like a child holds a parent's leg,
afraid of separation,
afraid of fear.
The admission of need held abey,
held captive by our mutual needs,
like cellmates discussing escape,
the prison we have made holds us.
We wait for the warden's pardon
which may never come.
Are we to be released some day,
or are we on death row?
edit on 06/02/2011 by grayeagle because: (no reason given)