Body Talk

She knew that the body held on to things, remembered things. She sensed that hidden there in its dark recesses, tied into its muscles, buried in its bones were all the things she had forgotten. Sometimes in her silence she heard it speak softly, in gentle whispers, as it tried to tell her of its memories, its stored secrets. Then there were the other times where she felt its pain / her pain come rushing to the surface without warning, hurtling through her like an express train and splitting her calm demeanour like a scream.


He Would Never Know. . .

She had faced death a thousand times, stared it straight in the eyes, terror and adrenaline her only companions as she clung to the thin strand of light that connected her to this earthly realm. That tiny bright thread that shone through even her darkest night, it had became her anchor, so fragile that at times she was sure it would break. He would never know, as he lay sleeping beside her, the surge of relief she felt every time she realised that she had made it through another night.


On Being Empathic

She cried, sobbing hot tears streaming in rivers down her sad face, she cried so he didn't have to. So he didn't have to carry that heavy sharp stone of hurt, so that he could externalise the pain and sorrow that he could never express. So that he could cradle her and rock her gently as he felt the anguish and healed and soothed them both in his big strong arms.