The car stops.

The wind like small exhales of some ancient breath carries yellow and orange leaves down in a waltz. I pause on an inhale as a calm sadness moves across my body. It is a heavy sadness but not the same as that teenage sadness which in it’s daunting blackness hangs like eternal rain clouds never given way to rain. No, it is a different sadness. From a different place. It is heavy, but it is hollow. Like the hard rocky shell of a crystal ore. It is calm. Not a summer storm nor a winter blizzard but a slow autumn drizzle when the sky is half sunshine half haze and small stray beams of golden light shine down like disco ball reflections onto a wet pasture. It is a sadness born of a deep and enduring love. It is the knowledge of death in that fleeting and poignant moment when a lover gazes into the eyes of their affection. It is the hovering of infinity over the head mortality. It is the cry of an artist’s heart while he gazes longingly at a Great Beauty in the distance. It is not a driving sadness. It does not speak in sharp accusations or denials. It does not scream of loss and reproach. It is a whisper. A whimpering of humanity into the shoulders of heavenly eternity. It is the sigh of a mother watching her youngest take their home in someone else’s arms. This sadness rests upon my shoulder as I place the car in park and watch the sporadic dance of swallows in the trees high above. Thoughts of loneliness and it’s monkish burden mellow in my head like cold water in the heat of summer. Love is a strange creature when it has grown beyond the height of individuality. When it has become so great that it’s shadow lay across the path of all things which before seemed so reproachable for loving. How can one love the loneliness which for so long drove the body forth with the mind in tow? How can one love the scrape of sand against sore and tired knees? The tease of distant lust across great lands? It is a strange thing to feel so alone when you find love in all you see. But so it is and so it must always be. I turn the car off and the silence of a dead radio chills my shoulders as I step out into a world I’ve come to love so much that it has cast me out. For, like the child who in their adulthood learns the secrets of street magicians, I can never walk back across that line of mystery drawn into the sand of knowledge. So I place my hands in my pockets and walk my routine into a house I have not always called home. I place my keys on a counter I did not build and release a breath I know is much older than I. This sadness is my love, you see, and in it’s soft arms I am home.

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