You have his curly hair tumbling on your face, harmless yet fierce, challenging you to brush them away and to tilt your chin and smile at the sun.
The smile is his, the way your eyes meet your lips as they kiss your cheeks in the upwards delight at the charming tips of humours edge.
You walk like him.
The strong presence, arms swaying in melody with concrete structures, the suits walking past and the busker whose strings pull at your core.
You laugh just like him I tell you. The way the sounds come tumbling out in no order. Desperate to escape from your inner being. You laugh just like he did when you told him you would leave the nest one day and conquer the world with your pen, your ink that bleeds now as you write, seeping into the edges of the paper, of life.
Your hands, earnest and delighted at the texture of nature’s fibres are like mine. Fingers, paint stained and hungry at every empty canvas they meet.
You are still here, in the room where your coat hangs, silent but here, smiling at me and telling me that I should continue to paint the skies, the land, the heavy clouds as they wait to release and the thoughts beyond my tangible reality.
You may be, to everyone else, a sleeping beacon of the past; silently waiting below a stone that bears your name and the day you came and went back. You may be, like the flowers that wilt slowly above you, a memory and reason for the sadness that stains the tears in everyone’s eyes as they remember you.
But to me, you are the underbelly of my every dream, the beauty beyond the creepers, the warmth beyond the garden which holds the door to the other side, the crescendo of my every note. That is what you are to me.
I am now simply waiting, not for your return, but for the moment where i will patiently return to where i need to be beyond the seams of this daily grind where i will find you standing, waiting for me, with those curls, the smile and the eyes that always understood why my fingers were stained with ink.
You are the depth of red, which runs in my veins.
You are the direction of the line, as it tilts and bows and folds into life. A complex series of adjectives and oxymorons and similes and forlorns, attempting to communicate, i guess, what you mean to me. You are so much more than the man whose name is engraved on a stone sitting in the darkness of a graveyard at the doorstep of the home you made for me.
I’m glad they say i have so much of you, i remind them of you, i smile and walk like you, its all because i am so much of you, a part of you, the core of you… of me.. is you.
© 2014 Shroomantics ~ Rahima Begum