Apr 5 • General discussion
His Holy O
There is no evidence,
they said,
of a stroke—
not on CT,
not on MRI.
But I have eyes.
All I know is
his movements
are slower now—
more intentional,
like the turning
of large pages
in a heavy book.
When he speaks,
concentration
his dearest friend.
His words—
methodical,
measured.
Like thick honey
dripping
from the comb.
And I—
I find myself
watching his lips
like a silent prayer,
as he strives
to shape a word,
his mouth
a frantic,
holy O—
pulling
a heavy anchor
from the sea.
And still—
I find them sexy.
Maybe…
even more
than before.
Because now
each word
costs him something,
and that—
that makes them
worth everything.
2
2 comments
His Holy O
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