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.
• • •
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.
Some people think substance is style. The chip on his shoulder is a gaping hole that spreads to his navel. It’s sexy. It matches mine.
We’re holding a tiny wooden box of keys between us. All shapes and ages, found scattered in this old house. I wonder if there’s one here to unlock his chest. I wonder, too, if I hadn’t pursued, if he would have let me walk by.
His smile is broken. It hurts my heart. John Mellencamp had it right: “It’s a sad feeling when you’re living on those in betweens.” I am. I’m not sure what he’s living on. But it’s not hope.
Our timing is not in this moment, but it may change in the next. That might be all I know. I trust the universe. I have to. Because I have to believe in something. I wish someone over the age of 10 would believe in me.
My tendency is more toward steamroller than delicate flower. (Lifelong struggle.) He doubts me, and maybe everyone. He doesn’t say, but I feel it.
Still, when this woman says, “You are the only exception,” she means it. Every molecule she is comprised of backs those words.
Some things cannot be given, no matter how hard you try or how badly you want to bestow them. Faith is one. Fidelity and compassion also come to mind. He has to earn his. I cannot help him.
I know that I don’t want to be alone. I’ve been alone too long in this marriage. I believe joy, hope and happiness expand exponentially when they are shared. This year, some pretty amazing things happened to me. Some that I will never experience again. I didn’t have anyone to celebrate with. It sucked.
The sparks on his tongue taste like warm milk. They pull me down, hard. I like the way he looks at me. I like the way I feel sitting beside him.
This is not a dash for the finish line. This is a slow sip of scotch by the fire. A grin. A thoughtful pause. An intimate parting of lips.
But will we follow-through?
• • •