The sleeping word

She's walking softly, backwards
out of a crowded room, hoping
no one takes notice
of the curtains. Exhale.
There's a curious word, a word
that lies dormant in her mind, sleeping
a sleeping word. Loneliness. She wonders
what it means, is, of course she knows, but
what does it really mean. To mean,
to be felt, to understand from the guts. Yes,
the guts. The place where all important words are
digested. Surely they're still there, inside, churning.
Her guts remember a time, a time, a time ten years ago. Ten
years this month, a week of blackness. A void. A
void. It was just a word passing through, then
a doubling over, life breath turned to tears. And
something happened, a line in the sand perhaps, a
crossing over. To cross over is to never return, at least
not as it was then, not as you were, not as she was. Now
a sweet sadness, a sad sweetness quietly covers
the memory, like snow so soft it would melt from the heat
of your skin, her skin, on one of those shadowless nights when
the fresh fallen cloud has dampened the noise, encased
in a moment. A scene not to be disturbed
by repetition. And so time moves forward from the line. Linear
movement, solitary in its journey, the only luggage
the sleeping word.