We were married in the rain. When the gossamer dripped dreams had run their course and words hit the beautiful as close as they could. In simple string themes with strange timing.
The ghost touched my hair softly to remind me as I slept and I knew of it. Clean washed wishes came and went in the start of a marriage. When I forgot the other. We were careful what we wished for. We were careful of what we dreamed.
We were married without a belief. Forsaking her for all others and the one. Wishing we could keep to honour but ultimately uselessly unable. The words for all their beauty meant nothing when under the rain. When out of the light. And still her Ghost touched me.
Inspiration came as birds in morning flight or as the sun only touched its horizon from underneath. When time was still to come and useful. They said there is no such thing as creative love. Words are anethama, they said, to all that is lonely. When the spirits dance feelings such as these must cease. And in ceasing they kill the words one hears when not alone. Living became existing. So the words became the requiem for the one I lost to her early death, not the one I lived and slept with. The touching Ghost of the one who died before I knew, or because I knew, I loved.
She softly touched the strings of my hair in the marriage bed. She touched me intimately in all the strange ceremonies I produced to keep only what I already had. All lost to the inevitable power of marriage failures anyway.
I ignored in time the Ghost touching me. I ignored all the signs from when the other married me in the rain and all subsequent relationships died stillborn..
When the fleeting strokes came now I slept alone. I caught them and held onto whatever joy I have had in the memories they sometimes brought.
We were married only once in the sun before she died. Without a ceremony and without a belief of lying together.
© 2010 Ken Simm.
A Confounded letter related to the first time.