Penelope's Heart

I wrote a story starting from the end and fixing a bit the beginning, with no particular interest, without thinking I could possibly fill the empty space among.

And I feel miserable, because I know that that was it, the most important part of them all. I gave to these characters, ghosts in disguise, just a station and a one-way ticket.

But I gave them no train, no journey, no hills and sky outside a window. 

And the final destination has always been there: at the beginning.

I left these poor souls in the waiting of a spirit they won't even be able to recognize.

I hate you, just a little bit. Because you knew it from the very start, from the moment you hid your shield in the sail, while you were telling goodbye to our life, you knew even then that the main part was the journey.

But you didn't tell that to me.

You just gave me your departure and your return. Neither the livid waves of history nor the monsters of your memory. 

I've never heard the cry of those who thought you were lost.

There was just the silence of this anger, the remorse of an inert time that keeps falling down and sinking, strangled by one more thread, blessed by one more embroidery.

In the dark nights of defeat, in the clarity of a golden prison I want you to ask me who I've become.

You have been the beginning of my every hope, the secret joy of seeing a light in the middle of the sea. 

You have been in the heat of nameless hands, in the tears of salt and clay. 

You were the writer of every doubt and your hands were not dirtied by blood, but by ink instead. You haven't ripped enemies, but words. You have emptied every sound of his wrong syllables and healed them.

 You have given back to the "sea" the bluest and the deepest meaning, to the "fear" the trembling of every letter, to the "home" the kindest and sweetest "o".

And just like that, you travelled around the world without me. But if you want me to embrace you now you're right outside my window, then lie to me. Tell me that you missed me on your unknown ship. That you heard my cry in the wind, my screams in the thunders, that you saw my hand holding yours when the clouds faded away after the rape of the storm.

Tell me that this trembling I feel right now, holding your skulled hands, is not just an echo of mermaids. You will tell me your story tomorrow. 

Now ask me.

Ask me about the wind, about the breaking emptiness. Why am I still alone? Where did I leave the signs of madness?

 I wish I had a room and the echo of every step. And the loneliness of this web. And the screams of the Suitors. And Odysseus' waves in his crazy fly.

I'm the queen of a reign made out of paper and rags. There's no pain in this page carved in the stone, nor in my bleeding nails.

 Remember me as the writer of your most beautiful wakening. And ask me. Ask me. Ask me: "Who wrote that epitaph on your grave?" I'll answer that I've written it by myself, while I was looking in my mirror and I didn't recognize myself. 

Then I've copied a story, written on a rock, telling about a prince with just one eye, telling about your dull absence, about the melting snow and the fading ship.

Please, ask me again: "Who wrote that epitaph?" I'll hold you tight, tracing your silhouette with the wrong hand, and I'll answer that you wrote it, my love, that there was your sign on it.  

Reviews

[Kat Ward]

This is very lovely. It reads like a poem rather than a story.

I like these lines:
"I gave them no train, no journey, no hills and sky outside the window."
"I left these poor souls in the waiting of a spirit they won't even be able to recognize."
"I want you to ask me who I've become."
"You have been in the heat of nameless hands, in the tears of salt and clay."
"I'll answer that I've written it by myself, while I was looking in my mirror and I didn't recognize myself."
"...your hands were not dirtied by blood, but by ink instead."

Those are wonderful lines, amongst many.

Grammtically: You were the writer of every doubts (doubt)
But if you want me to embraces (embrace) you...

It's a very emotional passage with wonderful word usage creating interesting imagery.

I look forward to reading more of your work.

Many thanks,

Kat Ward