resting place

I poured out my heart 

into a great stone bowl. 

all froth and turbulence, 

its sweet nectar found no outlet— 

no release from that lithic vessel. 

I poured out my heart 

into a great stone bowl. 

all brooding and restless, 

its dark nectar swirled and simmered 

against smooth unyielding stone. 

I poured out my heart 

into a great stone bowl. 

all sorrow and hunger and weeping, 

its pungent nectar grew rich and heavy 

with honeyed treasures. 

I poured out my heart 

into a great stone bowl. 

all fragrant and intoxicating, 

its hot, searing nectar welled up 

risking joy—or catastrophe. 

I poured out my love 

onto a great stone table, 

all smooth and unyielding. 

it found no resting place, and so, 

ran down bleeding sorrow deep into Earth’s breast. 

For nine months, he had known her, and for as long, he had held her in his heart. Her place there had grown and flourished and become a treasure to him. They had grown close and comfortable, and easy together. Both knew that their friendship carried many of the markings of romance, and they spoke of this often. Both were careful not to rush into shallow intimacy, and each knew that much could be gained by exploring each other in friendship without the press and fervor of hot physical passion.

But in all this, there seemed to be an imbalance between them. She appeared content to pursue their friendship with little thought of romance. For him, their idyllic companionship, profound and exhilarating and sweet as it was, always pointed the way to richer, deeper intimacy. However hard he tried, he could not shake the anticipation that someday, some way, this great sacred friendship would flower in love and intimate passion.

It was not so for her. She found herself frequently analyzing the psychology of their bond. She seemed eager at times to reduce his heated affections to psychological constructs of projection and transference. He knew these concepts, and acknowledged their potential, but of course, did not care. He was disturbed by her casual analysis and detachment, and even though he knew she was genuinely committed to their friendship, he carried a nagging dread in his bones.

For all these months, the specter had lurked unchallenged in his shadow. He had poked at it tentatively from time to time, and had written of the uncertainty and anxiety it fed to his heart. Then one night, he knew he must lift a corner and challenge the dark dread. He spoke to her of his deepest hopes and fears, and left his heart bare and open before her.

She was gentle and tender, and as always, careful with the complexity of their remarkable bond. She knew, as did he, that the time to commit had not yet come. She knew, as did he, that a move in either direction—to reject, or to encourage his anticipation, would damage the magical thing that had grown up between them. She knew, as did he, that the torment of his heart was not yet to end. She knew, as did he, that there was no resting place for him that evening.

They talked long into the moonlit hours of night, until talking gave way to the awkwardness of having no more to say and having no way to end the saying. Then finally he drove the long drive home, settling and sifting their words and all the energy and anxious care beneath them.

A dark and paralyzing realization gradually settled in night time shadows over him as he drove. In spite of his hope; regardless of her warm, careful encouragement, he had always known in a hidden place that she would not choose him for her heart. He had always known, and had never let himself face the knowing. Why this seemed so inevitable and resolute to him now, he did not know. What it was in her that signaled doom to him was not clear. Whether he read her heart truly or not, he could not, and dared not be certain.

But one thing was sure. He had disturbed a great looming shadow that covered all his horizons. His own worthiness in love was dashed on the rocks. His intrinsic value was in doubt. He had never been solid in confidence of these things, and now, this dark shadow had stripped him naked—helpless to find any hiding place in skill and craft and charm. He stood in his own dark void, without defense; without covering; without distraction. He could depend on no rescue. He must grope in this darkness alone.

He did not know what this dark thing meant to their friendship. He did not know how to speak to her of it. He did not know what lay ahead for them, or even for himself. He feared and dreaded any harm that might befall them. Their friendship was so good and sweet that he could not bear to injure it, but his heart was so weak and humbled that he could find no way to stand up in their defense. Finally, and without hope or despair, he must yield to his own great dark shadow and let it take him where it must.