8:18 p.m. - 2005-09-12
John Rant
John was a broken man when first he met me in a group for those refusing, against all odds, to abandon hope. He spoke of loneliness, eyes brimming with fresh betrayal. His hands ached with the sudden failure of a fierce grip on the life he believed to be true. John's face was an upleasant reminder that what can be shaken will be shaken and only that which remains can be trusted with a heart. His smile was like a wound, painful to watch. His voice contained the tempest, murmuring deep in his throat as he tried to convey his unspeakable loss. He was the color blue, in all it's saddest hues. He seemed to spill into the room, a man suddenly liquid. An ice sculpture melting into the worn sofa. He was old and young. Timeless in transparency. A vivid bruise on the calendar. I watched him from across the room and loved the part of him he hated most. The part that hadn't seen it coming. His body crumpled around him like an ill fitting coat. It touched something lost in me yearning safe passage. I knew him before he ever knew me, sitting still as a mirror. He never forgot those beginnings. Never lost his gratitude for the recognition in my eyes. No matter how I was to treat him, no matter how many times I tossed his heart aside, he remained loyal as a star. Guiding me home.
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