Coming up close

So I’m happy. How about you?

I know. It doesn’t make much sense to me either. By all accounts, I should be miserable. But that got old. The flesh is still sore and tender, but the bruises are fading now. I’m moving on. It feels pretty spectacular.

He ignores me. It’s far better than following me through the house, shouting all the ways I’ve disappointed him. When I stopped reacting, he stopped itching for a fight. (Sometimes, I’m a slow learner.)

It’s funny, in an odd sort of way. My almost chronic complaint used to be that I couldn’t hold his attention. When I finally got it, I didn’t want it anymore. I didn’t realize that being on his radar meant being lamb-basted for every tenuous step.

Someone asked me today if I was a trophy wife. I wish. It’d be a whole lot better than what I am now, which is essentially a slave. Do you know that I haven’t been to the movies since 1998? I’m not kidding. The last time he took me out to a restaurant was in 2001. You cannot make these things up.

Late this afternoon, two fawns were grazing in a field on the side of the highway. Their white spots were just beginning to fade. In 37 years here, I’ve never seen that. Not once.

But these days, I’m not about taking sides. I’m aiming to build a team. Something with strength and character. Something durable for a fucking change.

And if this new boy is all that he seems, I am moving way too slow. Need to remedy that. Yeah, I heard the thunder. Shut up already.

• • •

There’s just no substitute for this tune, in this post, on this night. So be different than the rest: Follow through and play it.


‘Love is Love’

It occurred to me today that this post has been featured in two other places, but never here. That’s just plain wrong. So here you go . . .

You were the last dream I had. I guarded your heart. I was a downy blanket wrapped around your shoulders. I had to make sure you wouldn’t ever fear such a beautiful thing.

After all, during the thousand nights in our tiny apartment in the city, it was not into my ear that you whispered but into my heart. I still hear you smile in the dark. Your name still clings to my lips. The memory of your hands still warms my curves.

Come wrap your arms around me from behind. Tuck your fingers into my pockets. Rest your chin on my shoulder like only you do.

They say without the drink, people see and taste with an unequaled clarity. But tell me, can you feel us now in primary colors? Is my intensity white hot, or is it the red of the amaryllis? Have the memories faded to pastels or are they in Technicolor for the first time?

La mort c’est la mort. Mais l’amour c’est l’amour. La mort c’est seulement la mort. Mais l’amour c’est l’amour.

Your scars make me love you more. Nothing and no one will ever change that.

You are my one. But that isn’t the first blessing. The first is knowing I am yours.

This post was written for Ed Pilolla‘s Book of Love Letters, in April 2010, and was later featured on IndieInk.

• • •

I can’t decide if this tune is suitable or not. But since it’s in my top three of all-time, it can’t hurt. You know the drill. Loud.