When the sobs wrack my body He tells me

“Let go”

and I do, this time, the ugliness of melodrama dictating my response.

I can’t breathe, and I pull myself
from His arms.

It’s so cold on the other side of Him.

My mind will not settle, my thoughts disordered, a 3D puzzle with no solution regardless of the number of times I arrange then rearrange the pieces.
Even His proximity doesn’t calm me as it normally does.
I feel.


Everything He attempts is designed to sooth, to try, from the outside, to mend the inner, and when the salted tracks on my cheeks run dry He asks me,
voice soft, low, familiar,
(seeking direction as He tries to make sense of me?)

“What do you want to do?”

but His own battle occupies the space where I would usually stand,
and I cannot,
selflessness reminds me I cannot,
ask of Him that which would answer His question.

So I shrug, my mind holding onto a shattered question answer blank.

“OK” is His reply, mild amusement coating each short syllable.
“What don’t you want to do”

My reply is out before His sentence completes.
I don’t have to think, or feel or rummage amongst the rubble of my melodramatic mind in order to search for the answer. It escapes before I have time to counter it’s effects.



He gathers me into His arms and keeps me there, held captive whilst the word hangs in the air above us.
He has no words.
Neither do I.
I cannot move, He’s holding me closer, tighter, with more ferocity than ever before.

There is no sound, no sobbing, no nothing.
There’s nothing.

He doesn’t rock me, or move my hair from my face.
He doesn’t coo to me in the hushed tones of comfort to which I have become accustomed.
He just holds me to Him.

In silence.