Ukiah, My Dear (part)

Slouched upon the tired plastic of Denny's most special piece of cushioning in California I asked the woman I love most to marry me. Or rather I said that I would marry her. She answered as she often did, as only she is able to, she answered underneath words and language, below the grounds that our fathers and their's before laid with books and debates and lies and talking, always talking.

She spoke from the ether, from the well, from magick itself- from that innermost place that lies underneath everything, even under poetry and dream. She spoke from silence, from the breathing of animals, the passing of comets, from the scurry of insects laid deep under the ground.
I couldn't always hear her silence and this would become a signal post of my anxiety, a piece of what would eventually draw us apart. But when I could hear her wordlessness, purely heartborn and without ears, that I could hear it- this made me feel special beyond measure.


Part of me still sits at Denny's- the coffee gets colder and Ravven's head is against my shoulder, the waitress doesn't mind that she's asleep. I am so very tired and yet wait to hear her answer. . .