His skin. So white – like the December day when He was born.
She was looking at him from Olympus,
waiting for them to be reunited on Earth.
His skin. So pale – like the way her lips turned
when he left without any Goodbye.
His touch. So cold – like the glacial epoch
that has extended onto the surface of her soul.
His scars. Dark purple and visible – like the grief
she wears into the world.
His silence. So heavy – like the burden of the Earth
that has fallen on her shoulders
since his time clock stopped.
Oh, Sister Havisham, he’d whisper
– if only he could turn his face in the direction
where her soul was waiting –
and stay.
But He’s looking at her from Olympus
waiting for them to be reunited
in the Land of Gods.
Alta's World 