“I’m sorry.” She said, with a soft and apologetic tone; almost a cry, but with less energy, I would say.
He said nothing in response, not out of a reserved anger, but because of a contemplation. He sat across from her. Leaning his weight forward, he rested his forearms upon his thighs. His fingers met in the middle and were interlocked. They were in sad wanting for a place to feel secure.
The mountains changed form, the wind blew, and the trees slowly swayed to one side, and back; he said nothing – Silence stood by, and was witness to this.
A change, slight, but still change. A thought emerged into his mind in a graceful and considered appearance, and this thought remained, reiterating its intention with a calm whisper.
He inhaled, holding the air purposefully in his chest; it was held there and recycled into something new. Once its evolution was fulfilled, he let it free; consciously, he ushered it on.
He lifted his head and looked to his surroundings, over to the corner, down to the floor, across to the window, and finally, to the central figure of his life, who stood just as those beautiful roses do; in an air of strength, but in reality, a soft figure; flowers have petals, but some also have thorns.
“I’m sorry,” she said once more, thinking he was angry. “I don’t know what I was thinking, please.”
The desperation of a genuine plea echoes externally, moving from place to place, asking for acceptance like a beggar in need of that smallest portion of food. Then the plea is received, found, and returns to the vocation of an echo, an internal and desperate echo; over and over, the Waves explain how they are being forced by the Moon to beat upon the Beaches, who stand in vulnerable and changing presence, and the Waves ask for forgiveness.
He now heard his whisper talking with her plea, and they conversed, they reasoned, and at last the plea understood. He rose. He walked towards her with smooth passion for the one whom he loved; it caused the walls and all the life around them to blur into a wave of trickling colours.
She stood. She looked at him, ignoring the uniqueness of the World, which now danced for them in apology for its imperfection.
He was close; mere inches away. Their hearts beat through their bodies, and found themselves feeding the floor with a strong sense of timing.
Looking, deeply, but with a tender sense of appreciation, he saw every part of her life.
His voice was hard and rough as it fought to politely ask Silence to leave. Once his words touched upon her melancholy consciousness, he followed them, and as grace falls to the divine in worldly aptness, their lips met.
It wasn’t a most beautiful of moments. The world didn’t stop and their hearts beat on regularly. But it was comfortable, familiarity is comfortable.
It went on for a short while, as most comfortable things tend to do, and when they parted, Silence came to protect the moment; his whisper, however, was outside of Silences command.
“I’m sorry.” She uttered one final time.
Once a river finds a new route, does it return to its old one?
“It’s okay, you’re going to be fine.”
When the rains return, that dry and unused river bed can flow ferociously with life again; the river has changed though, its body is altered, and it is something else.