Miracle

I got my own little, ordinary miracle one night.

I've been holding my heart of hearts up to the heavens, leaving all of its desires naked for judgment, but that night was different. It was, I thought, the night the universe would conspire nurturing or ceasing an unstoppable force.

I whispered just loud enough to be heard by the invincible hand who masterfully molded me in his likeness.

"...if we deserve to be together holding each others' hands, carve tiny spaces in our hearts for each other, and then carve far bigger places to contain you."

With someone's dearth desecrating every ounce of hopefulness left in me, I sought for a sign, a sign that would tell me to solder on or to set my eyes past what is in front of me.

I clasped both of my palms together, thumped them against my chest just above my heart and prayed that I would be heard.

"...please my tchotka amorta, speak to me. It doesn't have to be grand; it doesn't have to be warm. Speak of bitter words, speak of hate, curse me even, and I'll still hold those words as lovingly as I can. One word, one word will do, just speak to me."

I asked for one, but I was blessed with three, three words which are everything other than empty. In fact, those words were full, full of lyric sadness, inspired doubt and affectionate regret.

Indeed, those words were lacking of shots of happiness, but I didn't mind because I knew your jagged poetry were every emotion my riveting embrace can easily conquer.

But I couldn't hold you. My tchotka amorta is leaps and bounds away that only the lettered touch could reach; and so, I sent the best one of my best ones that night, the most affectionate touch I could ever give stretching within this lifetime and beyond.

Exhausted by hoping against all hopes that we'd let the invincible hand paint our fates, I sealed the round, brown glasses that secretly keep words I couldn't tell. Albeit deafening absences, slumber swept me with a light feeling because I got a miracle that night.

I was gifted with those three simple words someone nonchalantly sent flying in still air and across the fury of dawn. And without those pair of lips knowing, my little, ordinary miracle was woven by it.