‘i love you‘

he uttered the words to the empty sky

they floated on the wind

eventually he could no longer tell where they went

swirling on the geothermic swells

he’s made a ritual of doing this every morning

a cup of coffee and a good book

sitting on the hillside bench and watching the sun paint the dark canvas in shades of blue and purple, pink and yellow

in places it looked like a bruise

in others it was straight from a surrealism exhibit

he would sip the dark sludge and read words written by those gifted at painting in prose

a piece of him dying at the beauty of art

and as the onyx skies turned azure he would snap the book shut

close his eyes

and whisper to the ether

‘i love you‘

he never expects to hear a response

but his daily affirmation to the universe that he is still there holds true

before sleep he murmurs his love to his family

a focused concentric blessing and homage to the ones who matter

but in the morning he let’s loose to the random mess of the world

part of him thinks he is saying it to life

the little part of him that refuses to accept reality knows the truth

he utters his words in desperate pleading that they will find the ears of one so sweet and lovely

one that will sweep away the anguish of existence

slow the entropic hands of time

crumble the stones of worry in his gut to palatable gravel

raise his sorrowful eyes and place the glint of happiness once more upon those lifeless orbs

but atrophy is his only constant in the equation of life and love

and as all breaks down around him

he closes his eyes and whispers

‘i love you‘

to the uncaring void

maybe once it’ll whisper back

just once

please

i’m listening