Wailing at the cold moon

 

A savage place! As holy and enchanted 

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon lover!

'Kubla Kahn', Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

 

I walk clueless in the streets of a faraway city, the city of my heart. I have no direction, no place where I can rest my heart for a while.

Like a wounded wolf, feeling the end is near, pulls itself forward, with a hope unknown even to him. And looking at the sky, it wails its cry at the waning moon, so distant and so cold. The endless night will come soon.

But still it moves, grinning in desperate anger, not willing to let itself go. Unbound yet caged in a world that offers nothing more to it.

 

So I look at the moon, tonight, and my body still aches for the wound she opened in my chest. It hurts like hell, and I feel the end of my love is at hand, coming swift as I would lay myself down. I crave it for quietness and peace of mind’s sake. But still I don’t let it come.

What leaves me without words, it that I can’t hate her. I don’t want to flee. I don’t want to let her go.

By this wound, which opened my heart, now I can see what’s inside it more clearly.

And I see what I both feared and desired, and now it’s maybe too late to choose, for my choice has been taken.