My nights are cold where they had once been warm. Cold and yet not with out a light to come. No wavering, no uneasiness. Forwards, slowly. The tide has returned. It splashes over my warm shoulders, sending a cold shock through my body, fading the luster, the warmth I've been holding so close to my skin.
There has been an ax dropped. With teared eyes it will end in six weeks time.
Can I last that long? Is it different now? It is I suppose. Nights I weep for the absence and in the day, I revel in the warmth I had, the things I've done and the memories I've shared. Perhaps my past experience will help me get through this as I did before.
He said once, this would be my year. I suppose it is. It is my year to reach my full potential. It is my year for reaping happiness from seeds of patience and loyalty. Its my year to see another person happy. I am the Anne Elliot. I am the bended knee. I am the quiet bloom waiting for its first ray of sunlight. I am the sunlight, waiting for the clouds to part, so I might see my mountain.
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