Be Crumbled

"Have you heard from him lately?" her voice asked. 

Peter looked down at the ground. Considered his sneakers. 

"Not so much." He rubbed his eyes with the meatiest part of his palm.  His eyes stung. Not from sleeplessness, but from reading too much and from looking for things in the dark at night that just weren't there.

"Well, I'm sorry that's going on.  I know you guys were pretty close..." Jessie studied his face looking for more of a response. A crack.  A movement.  Anything, really.

Peter pushed his shoe forward a bit on the gravel to hear the crunch, a tiny puff of dust blooming into the air.

He glanced to the horizon, then turned his head slowly back towards the direction of the conversation. He closed his eyes, raised his eyebrows, paused like that- eyelids stretched taut- then let his eyes snap open again.  An attempt at massaging his own eyeballs.

"I guess so." he said, and picked up the metal bucket of cold water that had been resting by his feet.

With the cool of its slender metal handle against the curl of his fingers, he could feel the teeter of the water hitting the walls, inside.





be well; be loved,

k.

(title:  A line from this Rumi poem:

Be crumbled.
So wild flowers will come up where you are.
You have been stony for too many years.
Try something different.
Surrender.                                           )

(photo: the fuselage of an abandoned american navy cargo plane that crash landed in 1973, photographed under the aurora by Suranga Weeratunga on Iceland's Solheimasandur beach via nubbsgalore tumblr)

All of the above inspired by a conversation a friend and I had yesterday about love.