soldier

The murmurs of an unspoken language flooded the night and his breathing. Frog like sounds through gnashing teeth and his brother killed in Sarajewo.
The self-service stalls of wooden jewelry all across the country. You pick and pay whatever you like he says and smiles, it is a performance called trust. There is a newspaper article on him, he hands it over in his van and it is all wrinkly and you can tell he has lived with it. Later on he teaches me how to accept and not say thank you, we just are he says, that is enough. Barefoot in the creek just right below the wells. Bending down to gather water in our hollow hands and drink the sweet freshness, sweeter than any water you can find.
I see how his gaze is caressing my body, the hands of a sculptour and he knows, he can tell, when he sees it. Honey dripping off his fingers onto my skin. I writh and breath and try to open the gates of eden but it is grey still around me and silent. His hand stroking the side of my face. He holds my cheek, saying softly you need love. you don't need sex, you need love. His voice almost surprised and his embrace caring. Later he will still say goodbye to me like to a woman, recognizing in me what I haven't quite processed yet. The coffee and water and his gifts to me, so many. My songs pervade the night and pierce the silence between his few words. He was a soldier. He was a soldier. He was there.
And with his hands he can make the most beautiful creations of wood, letting it tell its story through his hands.
And his hands have ended someone else's story one day.
And his dreams are grinding and gnashing his teeth and he finds free parking every day because he was a soldier then.
The eyes of a sculptour, the heart of gold, soft like a big bear and the wisdom beyond compare. Simple he says, and points toward the now. You are my girl, in this now.