Incidental Poetry

So as a result of too much free time and the determination to use Sky Atlantic before it gets cancelled, I have become addicted to The X Files. As should be partly obvious, I was too young to watch it when it first came out, but I’m making up for lost time (finished Series 1, partway through Series 2). And while I was watching clips on YouTube (the bloopers are hilarious), I came across this, and-not to be too cheesy-it spoke to me in such a way that I thought I really had to post it.

And here are the words:

Grief squeezed at her eggshell heart.
Like it might break into a thousand pieces.
Its contents running like broken promises
into the hollow places his love used to fill.
How could she know this pain would end?
That love, unlike matter or energy,
was in endless supply in the universe…
A germ which grows from nothingness
which cannot be eradicated even from the darkest of hearts.
If she had known this, and who could say she would believe it?
She would not have chanced to remain at his sad grave
until such an hour so that she might not have to learn the second truth before the first:
That to have love was to carry a vessel that could be lost or stolen
or worse, spilled blood-red on the ground.
And that love was not immutable and could become hate as day
becomes night as life becomes death.