Sunday Stew: The Raging Bull

by Drew Sutherland

What more do I have for you than this unworthy little thought in the wee small hours? I can't hold you and hug away your pain, you're too far away. I can't run my fingers through your soft hair. Life forbids us even having the time to take solace in exchanging words on the telephone. But I will stare down the time and space, like a mighty bull. You will see me snort and toss my head, knowing my eye is on you and you alone. You will hear my hooves pounding futilely on the earth- my solitary dance of death, loneliness, and warning. And maybe, just maybe, while you sleep, you will feel my breath fall softly on the nape of your neck, my heart beating- strong and hard but NEVER rushed- through my chest and against your back, my whole self pressed against the thin, thin pane of glass that separates the miles. I may fog the glass, but I will never look away.