They will meet again.
It will be soon.
He will say things to her.
Deep things from what is a deeper place.
In him.
It is where he goes sometimes,
When it hurts and no one knows.
Things arise there, often dark.
Shadows with twisted faces.
Only the eyes have life, light.
The rest is buried where shadows sleep.
They will awaken at dawn.
The faces will be smooth again.
And pink.
The dawn comes when eyes are willing to look
in the darkness to see what is there.
Shadows run.
There is nowhere to go but the fire, light.
Burning dross.
Pure. Fine as gold. Shiny. Heavy.
Warm is his love.
© 2007 by Ron Russo