1.158 – The Man On The Mountain

She sits.

She waits.

For something that will never come, never to be seen, never to be known and yet she cannot move.

In an endless hope, agony runs in the back of her mind beyond the seeds of elation, resting in marrow embedded with guilt.

Rivers of blood run deep, coursing through the stone, locked for eternities to come.

They build atop themselves, sheltered from light.

“Why am I deserving, love? Why should I ever know? Nothing should be so divine against me. Not after such perilous roads traveled.”

But he sits and listens, casting aside judgment though she is stricken with the thought of it, deserving it, awaiting it as it should so be delivered. But he does not, as he never really would.

The silence in his arms is deafening; a constant reminder that she doesn’t have to be on one end or the other…not perfection but not chaotically flawed.

In this room, in this space, upon his lap, within his arms…she is safe.

Stained but not tainted.

As even in the dark, he does not see the shadows of a past, the darkness of fallen moments, the marks of sins against man.

He does not point these out, he does not stare with doubt.

He sits quietly and lets her feel, reminded only that she is still alive and waits for the moment when she will smile again and be at peace – not with the world but with herself.

In this dark room, this dark space, upon his lap as night has fallen, she does not have to be flawlessly beautiful.

He sees her scars, knows them to exist despite her best attempts to hide them. Placing his hand upon her cheek, he shows her one or two of his own and smiles softly…ridding the shame from her eyes.


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