He could hear the pain in her voice,
and it left him wading in frustration.
His desire was to leave this place
and go to her.
He knew she would be standing
in the shadows of the sycamores…
anticipating…
and waiting
to breathe.
If only she would allow him the privilege
of being -- air.
Did not she understand the connection of sun
and moon
and earth.
How else could she explain the twisting necessity
and its vagrant reply.
He heard her voice infiltrate common distractions
and he felt awkward in his helplessness.
He gave her words racing from a sensitive heart,
tingling with spices of hope.
He should have been there
listening to her pain against his chest.
Perhaps, beneath the weight of revelations;
they could discover themselves.
And all the "I Love You" would not seem tainted,
Nor all the promises -- stone.
They could breathe, again.
If she would only grant him the privilege
Of being – air.