Falling
The falling was the easiest part. And, really, it was more like sinking. It was like walking into the ocean’s arms until all that existed was salt water and the ache of breathless lungs. But what an exquisite ache.
The beginning is always easiest. There are no quarrels, no silences stretching into the darkness, no empty words or broken promises. There are passionate kisses in the rain, frenetic love making. There are soft kisses too, evenings spent cuddled together. There are cups of hot cocoa or lemonade.
If you had asked her the moment she fell in love, it would be when he breathed her name against the paper of her skin. The way he said it like a promise.
If you had asked him the moment he fell in love, it would be when she walked out of the bathroom wearing his shirt from the night before. He knew he wanted to wake up next to her every morning for the rest of his life.
Swimming
The middling is richer than the beginning. It has more depth and is full of sweetness. It is a settling; a melding. It is a slow blending of two into one.
She loved making love during these times more than in the beginning. Those were hurried, sometimes awkward. These were slow and delicious, full of the mutual feelings and shared passion.
He loved talking during these times. They had passed the superfluous “getting to know you” chatter and could get to the meat of shared interests and philosophical topics. They sat, entwined, talking for hours about everything.
Swimming along, they resurface from the falling, riding waves as they come. They take their time, enjoying the feelings without the breathless ache and rushing need. Swimming, they sometimes dive deeper than they ever have, touching milestones to guide them back to surface.
Drowning
The end is defined in the moments they can’t take back. These moments are sometimes clearly etched into memory and sometimes forgettable.
The end came without fanfare. There was no straw to break the camel’s back; no warning bells. They simply let go of each other’s hands in the dark, took one last lungful of air and dove too deep to resurface.
She said it had started ending the day they ran out of things to say. The flow of conversation, their never-ending dialogue, became a trickle and then a drip, until it finally stopped altogether.
He said it was the day they made love and the distance between their fingers seemed to grow shadows and their bodies took up space outside of each other. Separating like lips for a kiss, but never following through. They had blossomed and, just as quickly, they had wilted. No hard feelings, just the memory of oceans.
Showing posts with label kiss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kiss. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 4, 2017
Sunday, February 7, 2016
A Sexual Encounter from the Point of View of a Loveseat
-Twelve hundred dollars and a Pearl Necklace-
He kisses her into my arms; admires my gilt, cream and gold threaded, upholstery. He loves the contrast of her skin against mine. He says so as he slides his hand up her thigh and under her satin slip of a dress. He finds something just as satin and she lets out a gasp of pleasure.
-Venetian and Satin-
Her dress whispers to the floor, intimate as old lovers, and her hips kiss the cushions. Between deep kisses, he notes the plushness. He sighs, blissful, pushing into her and her into me. Her breath comes in short gasps, each one a love letter into my silks. She holds me, shaking.
-Love and Seating-
He cups the curve of her skull, bringing her face closer to his, sharing breaths. Her skin is a blushing umber rose, petals unfolded against cream and gold. She is ripe with need, skin caressing skin until they both begin to burn. When they release, they both cry out in animalistic joy, equally ravaged by waves after waves.
-In years to come, I am a lusty reminder-
He kisses her into my arms; admires my gilt, cream and gold threaded, upholstery. He loves the contrast of her skin against mine. He says so as he slides his hand up her thigh and under her satin slip of a dress. He finds something just as satin and she lets out a gasp of pleasure.
-Venetian and Satin-
Her dress whispers to the floor, intimate as old lovers, and her hips kiss the cushions. Between deep kisses, he notes the plushness. He sighs, blissful, pushing into her and her into me. Her breath comes in short gasps, each one a love letter into my silks. She holds me, shaking.
-Love and Seating-
He cups the curve of her skull, bringing her face closer to his, sharing breaths. Her skin is a blushing umber rose, petals unfolded against cream and gold. She is ripe with need, skin caressing skin until they both begin to burn. When they release, they both cry out in animalistic joy, equally ravaged by waves after waves.
-In years to come, I am a lusty reminder-
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Snowflakes in Black Hair
You are romantic; like snowflakes in black hair,
your smile askew, your hair rakish.
Your lips are roses, pressing themselves together,
parting like every movement is a kiss.
You are quiet; soft spoken like summer rain.
Yet, intense; passionate, provocative, polite.
Your eyes turn into oceans, I could fall hard into,
drowning in them, storm-tossed in softness.
your smile askew, your hair rakish.
Your lips are roses, pressing themselves together,
parting like every movement is a kiss.
You are quiet; soft spoken like summer rain.
Yet, intense; passionate, provocative, polite.
Your eyes turn into oceans, I could fall hard into,
drowning in them, storm-tossed in softness.
Friday, November 20, 2015
Anxiety
"Oh, hello," I say.
It seems you have come to pay
a visit and I am woefully
unprepared for your company.
My anxiety is like a frightened child,
crawling into my bed, inviting me to share
all of it's nightmares so that sleep seems
terribly far away.
It causes my mind to chuckle at
itself. I know this is silly and foolish,
there is no reason, but that is all the
reason I need to want to fight or fly.
My anxiety is sometimes ever present,
sometimes hardly here, sometimes
creeping along the southern walls of
whichever brain's hemisphere, I do not know.
It drops in, uninvited, at the
most random moments.
Whispering nonsense that makes
only sense to my fears.
It wrinkles the blankets,
races my heart up and down my ribs,
like a ladder to some heaven or hell,
knowing very well there is neither.
It wrings its hands against
imagined slights and old debts.
It trembles at phone calls and
knocks upon the door.
It forgets that we must eat,
forgets we must drink,
forgets all but the encompassing
fears.
My anxiety, it is a friend I do not
want to speak with anymore, but
somehow I can't seem to show it the
door.
Only, opening my arms, pretending
I am fine. I am satisfied with this
shell of a life, hugged by a butcher
with a skillful knife.
My anxiety, it kisses me to sleep,
rolls itself into my waking dreams,
shapeshifts into things I think I can't trust,
then back again.
My anxiety is a living, breathing, being.
A guest that refuses to leave.
A child that wants only to share its dreams.
And I am alone with it.
It seems you have come to pay
a visit and I am woefully
unprepared for your company.
My anxiety is like a frightened child,
crawling into my bed, inviting me to share
all of it's nightmares so that sleep seems
terribly far away.
It causes my mind to chuckle at
itself. I know this is silly and foolish,
there is no reason, but that is all the
reason I need to want to fight or fly.
My anxiety is sometimes ever present,
sometimes hardly here, sometimes
creeping along the southern walls of
whichever brain's hemisphere, I do not know.
It drops in, uninvited, at the
most random moments.
Whispering nonsense that makes
only sense to my fears.
It wrinkles the blankets,
races my heart up and down my ribs,
like a ladder to some heaven or hell,
knowing very well there is neither.
It wrings its hands against
imagined slights and old debts.
It trembles at phone calls and
knocks upon the door.
It forgets that we must eat,
forgets we must drink,
forgets all but the encompassing
fears.
My anxiety, it is a friend I do not
want to speak with anymore, but
somehow I can't seem to show it the
door.
Only, opening my arms, pretending
I am fine. I am satisfied with this
shell of a life, hugged by a butcher
with a skillful knife.
My anxiety, it kisses me to sleep,
rolls itself into my waking dreams,
shapeshifts into things I think I can't trust,
then back again.
My anxiety is a living, breathing, being.
A guest that refuses to leave.
A child that wants only to share its dreams.
And I am alone with it.
Sunday, September 27, 2015
The Skeleton Remains
The skeletal remains of your kisses
clink around my incisors, tickle the
ivory of my molars, tap dance across
my canines.
At night I can hear them, tinkling
like chandeliers in a breeze. I can
taste the bittersweet, hollowed, bones
of them curled against my tongue.
Their sugar melts into cavities of
emptiness, blackening my teeth with
the ash of them. They rub themselves
against my taste buds, reminders.
In the still of your long absence,
all of my teeth have rotted away, wasted
by the frame of your feelings for
me. Too sweetly bitter to remain in me.
The ghosts of your kisses have replaced
the skeleton of your love. They howl,
but at least the clink of your chandeliers
against my teeth has ceased.
clink around my incisors, tickle the
ivory of my molars, tap dance across
my canines.
At night I can hear them, tinkling
like chandeliers in a breeze. I can
taste the bittersweet, hollowed, bones
of them curled against my tongue.
Their sugar melts into cavities of
emptiness, blackening my teeth with
the ash of them. They rub themselves
against my taste buds, reminders.
In the still of your long absence,
all of my teeth have rotted away, wasted
by the frame of your feelings for
me. Too sweetly bitter to remain in me.
The ghosts of your kisses have replaced
the skeleton of your love. They howl,
but at least the clink of your chandeliers
against my teeth has ceased.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Drowning Sun
The Sun drowned last night.
He followed the Moon through starlit passageways, black hair streaming behind her in waves.
She tripped over galaxies, swaying in the celestial ocean; waiting for the next starry tide to come in.
He waded out to stand beside her; their hands entwined like the constellations.
His lips grazed her still night hair, breathed in the newest scent of her and laughed.
She kissed the lemon slice of his mouth, drinking in the golden lips, a hand coming up to tangle in his wheat field hair.
The stars chattered, their diamond teeth clinking together like spoons in glasses; warning bells.
He lost his grip on her hand, slipping under a crescent wave, drifting out on primordial seas.
She lost him amongst the roiling blackness; holes swallowing the sound of her cries.
It was foolish to believe such moments were endless.
When all of heaven's din was hushed, they found him glowing beneath the mirror of the universe.
He had drowned in the tempest of her skies, lost in the voids of their eclipse.
The Sun drowned last night and the Moon has yet to stop weeping.
He followed the Moon through starlit passageways, black hair streaming behind her in waves.
She tripped over galaxies, swaying in the celestial ocean; waiting for the next starry tide to come in.
He waded out to stand beside her; their hands entwined like the constellations.
His lips grazed her still night hair, breathed in the newest scent of her and laughed.
She kissed the lemon slice of his mouth, drinking in the golden lips, a hand coming up to tangle in his wheat field hair.
The stars chattered, their diamond teeth clinking together like spoons in glasses; warning bells.
He lost his grip on her hand, slipping under a crescent wave, drifting out on primordial seas.
She lost him amongst the roiling blackness; holes swallowing the sound of her cries.
It was foolish to believe such moments were endless.
When all of heaven's din was hushed, they found him glowing beneath the mirror of the universe.
He had drowned in the tempest of her skies, lost in the voids of their eclipse.
The Sun drowned last night and the Moon has yet to stop weeping.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
All of Her: Prologue (Final Edit)
Prologue: He doesn't Love You.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I say nothing. What is there to say, really? I barely hear anything else he says. Not that it matters. He keeps talking; as if this conversation were about what to have for lunch. Or something just as bland. He doesn't even notice that my heart is breaking. I think I might be sick.
His words are echoing in my head. I am stuck on repeat. All I can hear is that awful sentence and my heart, drumming erratically against my rib-cage. I've gone mad. I'm standing here, on my own two hands, going crazy. I'm shaking.
I know he is telling the truth. I don't even have to look at them to know its the truth. Being a glutton for punishment, and already drunk with pain, I look anyway. Why not? She's smiling; lit up by the sunshine of his love.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I'm not blind; anymore. Its like the gauze has been ripped from my eyes. How did I not see it before? How could I be so completely clueless? Looking at it now, I can easily imagine them. Entangled, wrapped in pink sheets, their pink flesh fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. How did I miss this?
Am I an idiot for wishing he was looking at me?
She's standing a short distance away, barely out of ear-shot, and he is staring off and into her distance. She's still smiling at him, practically basking in the assurances of his love. I recognize that smile. Its the same one I had plastered across my, idiotic, face. Once. I can still remember that feeling; being loved and believing his sunlight would always shine on me. That smile, the one she wears now, is the same smile I was wearing just a few weeks ago. How did I not recognize that look before now?
The whole beach feels like it is trying to swallow me whole. Everything is rolling beneath my feet and he is rocking away from me and into her arms. I just stand there. I feel so pathetic. I try to smile, as if everything is okay, but it wobbles with the weight of the truth. He doesn't notice. I will never smile, like her, again.
How can I when I am watching the love of my life fall even more in love with my best friend?
"I'm still in love with all of her."
"Stop saying that!" I say, practically shrieking. David looks back at me, startled.
"I didn't say anything."
I look at him, sheepishly. Having no explanation for my odd behaviour, I bite my lip and turn away.
I need to get drunk. Is it normal for my chest to hurt this badly? Its like I've been punched. My whole body aches, like I have the flu. Its all just so ridiculous. This isn't fair. None of this is fair! Of course it isn't, but I can see that it doesn't matter what is and is not fair.
"Abra," he touches my shoulder. "Are you alright?"
The gall. The absolute gall.
"Am I 'alright'?" I ask, turning back toward him and shrugging off his hand. "Yes, David. I'm absolutely fucking peachy. Its not like the love of my life stood me up, on our wedding day, and then has the audacity to tell me that he is in love with my best friend. No, I'm not 'alright!' I feel like I'm going crazy right now! I've never been better."
Dumbfounded, he just blinks at me.
"I... I am sorry." he stammers. I wave off his apology as if it smelled bad. The thought that I should be nice flits into my head. I mean, you can't help who you love, right? As quickly as it entered, it is chased out by my anger and pain. I think I might vomit. I'm going to scream, or laugh hysterically. It is, in a sick and twisted way, quite comical.
She is looking back at us again. Her face is slightly cloudy, concern warring with the sunshine of love. I want to slap the sunlight off her cheeks.
"Go." I say, turning away. "You're going to leave with her anyway. You might as well leave now."
I turn back in time to watch him walk away and I have to resist the urge to chase after him. I want to yell at him, grab him by the shoulders and shake him. I wish I could smack some sense into them both. Or perform a relationship saving lobotomy. Well, relationship saving for me, not so much for them. There they go; their shadows seeming to swim off into the sunset, like a couple of mer-people to Atlantis. Or maybe that's my broken-hearted imagination.
I turn to leave, again, but I can't seem to make my feet move. Instead, idiot that I am, I turn back and see them kissing. Alice and David, off in their own personal wonderland, in love and laughing. They're smiling; that sweet and innocent smile of a first, and only, love. Damn. Why did I look back?
I'm feeling like I've just been turned into a pillar of salt; frozen and more than a little raw. Its like my wounds just got a vigourous scrub.
The time has come, the walrus says, to talk of many things. He's right, of course. Even talking walruses can be right. I don't feel like talking. Not to a talking walrus or anyone else. God, I hate Alice so much right now. I never thought it was possible to hate someone so much, but looking at her with David, I could almost spit acid. I could almost go up to them and wring her pretty, swan-like, neck.
Why couldn't they just disappear as soon as I looked back? Would that be too much to ask for?
Despite my desire, nothing changes the fact that Alice and David are still canoodling and I'm just standing here. Caught up in my foolish daydreams. If only I had super powers or something, I could destroy Alice and live happily ever after. With David. Like I'm supposed to. If she were my ugly step-sister, she'd cut off her nose to spite her face and I'd win him back with perfectly fitted glass slippers and my obvious charm. He would realize he is the only Prince Charming there has ever been for me and all will be right with the world.
I'm rambling.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
Those words are still echoing in the air around me. I have to get out of here. I need distance. This isn't running away.
He didn't even hesitate when I told him to go. I guess that tells me all I need to know.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I say nothing. What is there to say, really? I barely hear anything else he says. Not that it matters. He keeps talking; as if this conversation were about what to have for lunch. Or something just as bland. He doesn't even notice that my heart is breaking. I think I might be sick.
His words are echoing in my head. I am stuck on repeat. All I can hear is that awful sentence and my heart, drumming erratically against my rib-cage. I've gone mad. I'm standing here, on my own two hands, going crazy. I'm shaking.
I know he is telling the truth. I don't even have to look at them to know its the truth. Being a glutton for punishment, and already drunk with pain, I look anyway. Why not? She's smiling; lit up by the sunshine of his love.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I'm not blind; anymore. Its like the gauze has been ripped from my eyes. How did I not see it before? How could I be so completely clueless? Looking at it now, I can easily imagine them. Entangled, wrapped in pink sheets, their pink flesh fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. How did I miss this?
Am I an idiot for wishing he was looking at me?
She's standing a short distance away, barely out of ear-shot, and he is staring off and into her distance. She's still smiling at him, practically basking in the assurances of his love. I recognize that smile. Its the same one I had plastered across my, idiotic, face. Once. I can still remember that feeling; being loved and believing his sunlight would always shine on me. That smile, the one she wears now, is the same smile I was wearing just a few weeks ago. How did I not recognize that look before now?
The whole beach feels like it is trying to swallow me whole. Everything is rolling beneath my feet and he is rocking away from me and into her arms. I just stand there. I feel so pathetic. I try to smile, as if everything is okay, but it wobbles with the weight of the truth. He doesn't notice. I will never smile, like her, again.
How can I when I am watching the love of my life fall even more in love with my best friend?
"I'm still in love with all of her."
"Stop saying that!" I say, practically shrieking. David looks back at me, startled.
"I didn't say anything."
I look at him, sheepishly. Having no explanation for my odd behaviour, I bite my lip and turn away.
I need to get drunk. Is it normal for my chest to hurt this badly? Its like I've been punched. My whole body aches, like I have the flu. Its all just so ridiculous. This isn't fair. None of this is fair! Of course it isn't, but I can see that it doesn't matter what is and is not fair.
"Abra," he touches my shoulder. "Are you alright?"
The gall. The absolute gall.
"Am I 'alright'?" I ask, turning back toward him and shrugging off his hand. "Yes, David. I'm absolutely fucking peachy. Its not like the love of my life stood me up, on our wedding day, and then has the audacity to tell me that he is in love with my best friend. No, I'm not 'alright!' I feel like I'm going crazy right now! I've never been better."
Dumbfounded, he just blinks at me.
"I... I am sorry." he stammers. I wave off his apology as if it smelled bad. The thought that I should be nice flits into my head. I mean, you can't help who you love, right? As quickly as it entered, it is chased out by my anger and pain. I think I might vomit. I'm going to scream, or laugh hysterically. It is, in a sick and twisted way, quite comical.
She is looking back at us again. Her face is slightly cloudy, concern warring with the sunshine of love. I want to slap the sunlight off her cheeks.
"Go." I say, turning away. "You're going to leave with her anyway. You might as well leave now."
I turn back in time to watch him walk away and I have to resist the urge to chase after him. I want to yell at him, grab him by the shoulders and shake him. I wish I could smack some sense into them both. Or perform a relationship saving lobotomy. Well, relationship saving for me, not so much for them. There they go; their shadows seeming to swim off into the sunset, like a couple of mer-people to Atlantis. Or maybe that's my broken-hearted imagination.
I turn to leave, again, but I can't seem to make my feet move. Instead, idiot that I am, I turn back and see them kissing. Alice and David, off in their own personal wonderland, in love and laughing. They're smiling; that sweet and innocent smile of a first, and only, love. Damn. Why did I look back?
I'm feeling like I've just been turned into a pillar of salt; frozen and more than a little raw. Its like my wounds just got a vigourous scrub.
The time has come, the walrus says, to talk of many things. He's right, of course. Even talking walruses can be right. I don't feel like talking. Not to a talking walrus or anyone else. God, I hate Alice so much right now. I never thought it was possible to hate someone so much, but looking at her with David, I could almost spit acid. I could almost go up to them and wring her pretty, swan-like, neck.
Why couldn't they just disappear as soon as I looked back? Would that be too much to ask for?
Despite my desire, nothing changes the fact that Alice and David are still canoodling and I'm just standing here. Caught up in my foolish daydreams. If only I had super powers or something, I could destroy Alice and live happily ever after. With David. Like I'm supposed to. If she were my ugly step-sister, she'd cut off her nose to spite her face and I'd win him back with perfectly fitted glass slippers and my obvious charm. He would realize he is the only Prince Charming there has ever been for me and all will be right with the world.
I'm rambling.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
Those words are still echoing in the air around me. I have to get out of here. I need distance. This isn't running away.
He didn't even hesitate when I told him to go. I guess that tells me all I need to know.
Monday, November 17, 2014
The Things We Claim
Flowers in your beard,
your arms around me,
the way you looked when
you fucked me...
Those are the memories I own.
The taste of your smile,
like a slice of the sun,
dimpled perfection...
Those are the things I miss most.
Tears and burnt love letters,
the snarl of your anger,
spitting venom...
Those are the things I remember.
your arms around me,
the way you looked when
you fucked me...
Those are the memories I own.
The taste of your smile,
like a slice of the sun,
dimpled perfection...
Those are the things I miss most.
Tears and burnt love letters,
the snarl of your anger,
spitting venom...
Those are the things I remember.
Sunday, November 16, 2014
New York
Standing on the subway train,
wondering what your name could be.
Looking out at the darkness,
barreling through time and space,
daydreaming sunshine into the moonlight.
Is it David? Jon? Sebastian?
I'm trying to guess from your features;
eyes the color of a root beer float,
lips like Cupid's bow and a darting
tongue like an arrow through my heart.
In my mind I imagine the curl of your
lips tasting mine. You taste like the
color of your eyes and I get high off
your sugared breath. Could you imagine
my arms circling your neck like a necklace?
Is it James? Perry? Geoff?
The train is pulling into the station, you
stand to go and you push the ribbons
of your hair out of your eyes. You step
out into the world and the only name you have...
Is it New York?
wondering what your name could be.
Looking out at the darkness,
barreling through time and space,
daydreaming sunshine into the moonlight.
Is it David? Jon? Sebastian?
I'm trying to guess from your features;
eyes the color of a root beer float,
lips like Cupid's bow and a darting
tongue like an arrow through my heart.
In my mind I imagine the curl of your
lips tasting mine. You taste like the
color of your eyes and I get high off
your sugared breath. Could you imagine
my arms circling your neck like a necklace?
Is it James? Perry? Geoff?
The train is pulling into the station, you
stand to go and you push the ribbons
of your hair out of your eyes. You step
out into the world and the only name you have...
Is it New York?
Friday, November 7, 2014
Bathing Beauty
Quiet thoughts seem to whisper,
Your love letters never linger;
who am I to you?
Bathe me in kisses soft,
let my heart never break.
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Reality
Am I real?
Or is it just the way your hands feel on my skin?
Is it the way our palms touch when you are looking into my eyes?
Or is it the way your lips whisper haiku against the paper of my breasts?
You leave me breathlessly questioning if I exist or if I am merely a figment of your imagination.
Can your mind paint the sky such a heavenly blue?
Can you bind me to the earth as reality?
Are you a God that you can breathe life into my empty lungs?
Am I real?
You say I am only as real as I believe I am.
If that is true than I am nothing more than your will.
I am of simple design, easy tastes and childish whims.
Will I bleed if you prick me?
There are days I don't believe in myself.
Almost mythical, not quite beautiful, a dream wishing to be born.
Will you give me birth?
Or is it just the way your hands feel on my skin?
Is it the way our palms touch when you are looking into my eyes?
Or is it the way your lips whisper haiku against the paper of my breasts?
You leave me breathlessly questioning if I exist or if I am merely a figment of your imagination.
Can your mind paint the sky such a heavenly blue?
Can you bind me to the earth as reality?
Are you a God that you can breathe life into my empty lungs?
Am I real?
You say I am only as real as I believe I am.
If that is true than I am nothing more than your will.
I am of simple design, easy tastes and childish whims.
Will I bleed if you prick me?
There are days I don't believe in myself.
Almost mythical, not quite beautiful, a dream wishing to be born.
Will you give me birth?
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Shock
He kissed her; quick as lightning and just as shocking.
She looked at him, breathless.
He kissed her again, taking his time.
When she kissed him back, he pressed against her to share the shock.
She looked at him, breathless.
He kissed her again, taking his time.
When she kissed him back, he pressed against her to share the shock.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Scarecrow
She was surprised to find, when she kissed the scarecrow prince, that she loved him.
His amber eyes glint like the wheat fields back home.
Home was standing in front of her, begging her to stay.
His amber eyes glint like the wheat fields back home.
Home was standing in front of her, begging her to stay.
Friday, August 8, 2014
Dear Santa,
Dear Santa,
At fifty-three, one would think I was far too old to write you. But even fifty-three-year-olds can have wishes for Christmas.
When you fly into Chicago, this year, could you bring back my husband? I miss him most during this time. He used to help me string popcorn and twirl me under the mistletoe. When he kissed me I believed anything was possible.
He made me feel most alive, even as he was dying.
Please, Santa, if you have any power over death, bring him back to me so we can live another fifty years together.
Sincerely,
Anna.
At fifty-three, one would think I was far too old to write you. But even fifty-three-year-olds can have wishes for Christmas.
When you fly into Chicago, this year, could you bring back my husband? I miss him most during this time. He used to help me string popcorn and twirl me under the mistletoe. When he kissed me I believed anything was possible.
He made me feel most alive, even as he was dying.
Please, Santa, if you have any power over death, bring him back to me so we can live another fifty years together.
Sincerely,
Anna.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
All of Her: Prologue (Alternate Version)
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I say nothing. I barely hear anything else he says. He keeps talking, but my heart is breaking. I'm stuck on repeat. The only thing I can hear is my heart, fit to burst from my chest.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I know its true. I'm not blind; anymore. Its as if the gauze has been torn from my sight. How had I not seen the love radiating from her face? How did I not notice?
She's standing a short distance away, barely out of ear-shot, and he is staring off and into her distance. She's smiling, glowing, practically basking in the light of his love. I recognize that smile. Its the same one I used to have plastered to my, idiotic, face. Its the same smile I had a week ago. I realize that I will never smile like that again.
How can I when I am watching the love of my life fall even more in love with my best friend?
"I'm still in love with all of her."
"Stop saying that!" I say, practically shrieking out the words. David looks back at me, startled.
"I didn't say anything."
I look at him, sheepishly. Having no explanation for my odd behaviour, I bite my lip and turn away.
"Abra," he touches my shoulder. "are you alright?"
The gall. The absolute gall.
"Am I 'alright?'" I ask, turning back toward him and shaking off his hand. "Yes, David. I'm absolutely, completely, fucking peachy. The love of my life stood me up, on our wedding day, and then has the audacity to tell me that he is in love with my best friend. I've never been better."
Dumbfounded, he just blinks at me.
"I... I'm sorry." he stammers. I wave off his apology as if it smelled bad. The thought that I should be nice flits into my head. I mean, you can't help who you love, right? As quickly as it entered, it is chased out by anger and pain. I feel like I might vomit. I feel like I'm going to start screaming, or laugh hysterically. It is, in a way, comical.
She's looking back at us again. Her face is slightly cloudy, concern warring with the sunshine of love.
"Go." I say, turning away. "You're going to leave with her anyway, you might as well leave now."
He doesn't even hesitate. I guess that tells me all I need to know.
I say nothing. I barely hear anything else he says. He keeps talking, but my heart is breaking. I'm stuck on repeat. The only thing I can hear is my heart, fit to burst from my chest.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I know its true. I'm not blind; anymore. Its as if the gauze has been torn from my sight. How had I not seen the love radiating from her face? How did I not notice?
She's standing a short distance away, barely out of ear-shot, and he is staring off and into her distance. She's smiling, glowing, practically basking in the light of his love. I recognize that smile. Its the same one I used to have plastered to my, idiotic, face. Its the same smile I had a week ago. I realize that I will never smile like that again.
How can I when I am watching the love of my life fall even more in love with my best friend?
"I'm still in love with all of her."
"Stop saying that!" I say, practically shrieking out the words. David looks back at me, startled.
"I didn't say anything."
I look at him, sheepishly. Having no explanation for my odd behaviour, I bite my lip and turn away.
"Abra," he touches my shoulder. "are you alright?"
The gall. The absolute gall.
"Am I 'alright?'" I ask, turning back toward him and shaking off his hand. "Yes, David. I'm absolutely, completely, fucking peachy. The love of my life stood me up, on our wedding day, and then has the audacity to tell me that he is in love with my best friend. I've never been better."
Dumbfounded, he just blinks at me.
"I... I'm sorry." he stammers. I wave off his apology as if it smelled bad. The thought that I should be nice flits into my head. I mean, you can't help who you love, right? As quickly as it entered, it is chased out by anger and pain. I feel like I might vomit. I feel like I'm going to start screaming, or laugh hysterically. It is, in a way, comical.
She's looking back at us again. Her face is slightly cloudy, concern warring with the sunshine of love.
"Go." I say, turning away. "You're going to leave with her anyway, you might as well leave now."
He doesn't even hesitate. I guess that tells me all I need to know.
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
All of Her: Prologue (Edit #?)
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I say nothing. What is there to say, really? I barely hear anything else he says, not that it matters. He keeps talking, as if this conversation were about what to have for lunch. Or something just as bland. He doesn't even notice that my heart is breaking. It feels like it is disintegrating, crumbling into nothing inside my chest.
His words are echoing in my skull. I'm stuck on repeat. All I can hear is that awful sentence and my heart, fit to burst from my chest. I know that he is telling the truth. I don't even have to look at them to know it is true. I look anyway, because I'm already drunk on the pain so why not? She's smiling, lit up by the sunshine of his love.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I'm not blind; anymore. Its like the gauze has been ripped from my eyes. How did I not see it before? How could I have been so completely clueless? Looking at it now, I can imagine them entangled, wrapped up in pink sheets; their pink flesh fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. How did I miss this?
Am I an idiot for wishing he was looking at me?
She's standing a short distance away, barely out of ear-shot, and he is staring off and into her distance. She's still smiling at him, practically basking in the assurances of his love. I recognize that smile. Its the same one I had plastered across my, idiotic, face. Once. I can still remember that feeling; being loved and believing his sunlight would always shine on me. That smile, the one she wears now, is the same smile I was wearing just a few weeks ago. How did I not recognize that look before now?
The whole beach feels like it is trying to swallow me whole. Everything is rolling beneath my feet and he is rocking away from me and into her arms. I just stand there. I try to smile, like everything is okay, but it wobbles with knowing the truth. He doesn't notice. I will never smile, like her, again.
How can I when I am watching the love of my life fall even more in love with my best friend?
"I'm still in love with all of her."
"Stop saying that!" I say, practically shrieking. David looks back at me, startled.
"I didn't say anything."
I look at him, sheepishly. Having no explanation for my odd behaviour, I bite my lip and turn away.
I feel like getting drunk. I feel like I've been punched in the chest. My whole body aches. Its all just so ridiculous. It isn't fair, of course, but I can see that it doesn't matter what is fair and what is not.
"Abra," he touches my shoulder. "Are you alright?"
The gall. The absolute gall.
"Am I 'alright?'" I ask, turning back toward him and shaking off his hand. "Yes, David. I'm absolutely, and completely, fucking peachy. The love of my life stood me up, on our wedding day, and then has the audacity to tell me that he is in love with my best friend. I've never been better."
Dumbfounded, he just blinks at me.
"I... I'm sorry." he stammers. I wave off his apology as if it smelled bad. The thought that I should be nice flits into my head. I mean, you can't help who you love, right? As quickly as it entered, it is chased out by my anger and pain. I feel like I might vomit. I feel like I'm going to start screaming, or laugh hysterically. It is, in a sick and twisted way, quite comical.
She's looking back at us again. Her face is slightly cloudy, concern warring with the sunshine of love.
"Go." I say, turning away. "You're going to leave with her anyway, you might as well leave now."
I turn back in time to watch him walk away and I have to resist the urge to chase after him. I feel like screaming at him, like grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. I wish I could slap some sense into them both. Or perform a relationship saving lobotomy. Well, relationship saving for me, not so much for them. I watch them, their shadows seeming to swim off into the sunset, like a couple of mer-people to Atlantis. Or maybe that is my broken heart's imagination.
I turn to leave, again, but I can't seem to make my feet move. Instead, I turn back and see them kissing. Alice and David, off in their own personal wonderland, in love and laughing. They're smiling, that sweet and innocent smile of a first, and only, love. Damn, why did I look back?
I'm feeling like I've just been turned into a pillar of salt; frozen and slightly raw, like the wound just got vigourously scrubbed.
The time has come, the walrus says, to talk of many things. He's right, of course, even talking walruses can be right. I don't feel like talking. Not to a talking walrus or anyone else. God, I hate Alice so much right now. I never thought it was possible to hate someone so much, but, looking at her with David, I could almost spit acid. I could almost go up to them and wring her pretty, swan-like, neck.
Why couldn't they just disappear as soon as I looked back? Would that be too much to ask for?
Despite my desire, nothing changes the fact that Alice and David are still canoodling and I am just standing there. Caught up in my stupid daydreams. If only I had super powers or something, I could destroy Alice and live happily ever after. With David. Like I was supposed to. If only she were my ugly step-sister, who cut off her nose to spite her face, I could win him back with my perfectly fitted glass slippers and my obvious charm. He would realize he is the only Prince Charming there has ever been for me and everything will be right with the world.
Now I'm just rambling.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
Those words are still echoing in the air around me. I have to get out of here. I need distance. I'm not running away.
He didn't even hesitate when I told him to go. I guess that tells me all I need to know.
I say nothing. What is there to say, really? I barely hear anything else he says, not that it matters. He keeps talking, as if this conversation were about what to have for lunch. Or something just as bland. He doesn't even notice that my heart is breaking. It feels like it is disintegrating, crumbling into nothing inside my chest.
His words are echoing in my skull. I'm stuck on repeat. All I can hear is that awful sentence and my heart, fit to burst from my chest. I know that he is telling the truth. I don't even have to look at them to know it is true. I look anyway, because I'm already drunk on the pain so why not? She's smiling, lit up by the sunshine of his love.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I'm not blind; anymore. Its like the gauze has been ripped from my eyes. How did I not see it before? How could I have been so completely clueless? Looking at it now, I can imagine them entangled, wrapped up in pink sheets; their pink flesh fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. How did I miss this?
Am I an idiot for wishing he was looking at me?
She's standing a short distance away, barely out of ear-shot, and he is staring off and into her distance. She's still smiling at him, practically basking in the assurances of his love. I recognize that smile. Its the same one I had plastered across my, idiotic, face. Once. I can still remember that feeling; being loved and believing his sunlight would always shine on me. That smile, the one she wears now, is the same smile I was wearing just a few weeks ago. How did I not recognize that look before now?
The whole beach feels like it is trying to swallow me whole. Everything is rolling beneath my feet and he is rocking away from me and into her arms. I just stand there. I try to smile, like everything is okay, but it wobbles with knowing the truth. He doesn't notice. I will never smile, like her, again.
How can I when I am watching the love of my life fall even more in love with my best friend?
"I'm still in love with all of her."
"Stop saying that!" I say, practically shrieking. David looks back at me, startled.
"I didn't say anything."
I look at him, sheepishly. Having no explanation for my odd behaviour, I bite my lip and turn away.
I feel like getting drunk. I feel like I've been punched in the chest. My whole body aches. Its all just so ridiculous. It isn't fair, of course, but I can see that it doesn't matter what is fair and what is not.
"Abra," he touches my shoulder. "Are you alright?"
The gall. The absolute gall.
"Am I 'alright?'" I ask, turning back toward him and shaking off his hand. "Yes, David. I'm absolutely, and completely, fucking peachy. The love of my life stood me up, on our wedding day, and then has the audacity to tell me that he is in love with my best friend. I've never been better."
Dumbfounded, he just blinks at me.
"I... I'm sorry." he stammers. I wave off his apology as if it smelled bad. The thought that I should be nice flits into my head. I mean, you can't help who you love, right? As quickly as it entered, it is chased out by my anger and pain. I feel like I might vomit. I feel like I'm going to start screaming, or laugh hysterically. It is, in a sick and twisted way, quite comical.
She's looking back at us again. Her face is slightly cloudy, concern warring with the sunshine of love.
"Go." I say, turning away. "You're going to leave with her anyway, you might as well leave now."
I turn back in time to watch him walk away and I have to resist the urge to chase after him. I feel like screaming at him, like grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. I wish I could slap some sense into them both. Or perform a relationship saving lobotomy. Well, relationship saving for me, not so much for them. I watch them, their shadows seeming to swim off into the sunset, like a couple of mer-people to Atlantis. Or maybe that is my broken heart's imagination.
I turn to leave, again, but I can't seem to make my feet move. Instead, I turn back and see them kissing. Alice and David, off in their own personal wonderland, in love and laughing. They're smiling, that sweet and innocent smile of a first, and only, love. Damn, why did I look back?
I'm feeling like I've just been turned into a pillar of salt; frozen and slightly raw, like the wound just got vigourously scrubbed.
The time has come, the walrus says, to talk of many things. He's right, of course, even talking walruses can be right. I don't feel like talking. Not to a talking walrus or anyone else. God, I hate Alice so much right now. I never thought it was possible to hate someone so much, but, looking at her with David, I could almost spit acid. I could almost go up to them and wring her pretty, swan-like, neck.
Why couldn't they just disappear as soon as I looked back? Would that be too much to ask for?
Despite my desire, nothing changes the fact that Alice and David are still canoodling and I am just standing there. Caught up in my stupid daydreams. If only I had super powers or something, I could destroy Alice and live happily ever after. With David. Like I was supposed to. If only she were my ugly step-sister, who cut off her nose to spite her face, I could win him back with my perfectly fitted glass slippers and my obvious charm. He would realize he is the only Prince Charming there has ever been for me and everything will be right with the world.
Now I'm just rambling.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
Those words are still echoing in the air around me. I have to get out of here. I need distance. I'm not running away.
He didn't even hesitate when I told him to go. I guess that tells me all I need to know.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
Seasons
Summer
Silver smells like Fish.
Slick, shiny, scales shimmering at the bottom of a plastic bucket.
Green smells like the Earth after it Rains.
Great, gray, giants encircling the sky like lovers entwined.
Autumn
Red tastes like Her skin.
Ripe, rich, every touch like satin through my fingers.
Orange sounds like crackling Fire.
Ocherous, over-arching, flames dancing with shadows.
Winter
Blue tastes like Snowflakes.
Basking, bundled, in the snowy sunlight.
Brown tastes like Hot Chocolate.
Brushing, burning, fingers across her face.
Spring
Pink sounds like Her giggles.
Prancing, pleasantly, from her plump lips and perfuming the air.
Yellow feels like Sunshine.
Yawning, young, daffodils stretching out their arms to the sun.
Silver smells like Fish.
Slick, shiny, scales shimmering at the bottom of a plastic bucket.
Green smells like the Earth after it Rains.
Great, gray, giants encircling the sky like lovers entwined.
Autumn
Red tastes like Her skin.
Ripe, rich, every touch like satin through my fingers.
Orange sounds like crackling Fire.
Ocherous, over-arching, flames dancing with shadows.
Winter
Blue tastes like Snowflakes.
Basking, bundled, in the snowy sunlight.
Brown tastes like Hot Chocolate.
Brushing, burning, fingers across her face.
Spring
Pink sounds like Her giggles.
Prancing, pleasantly, from her plump lips and perfuming the air.
Yellow feels like Sunshine.
Yawning, young, daffodils stretching out their arms to the sun.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
At the Corner (02/12/2014)
At the corner of
"kiss" and "me"
I found your mouth and
I tasted your soul.
"kiss" and "me"
I found your mouth and
I tasted your soul.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Beautiful Merry Oak (fragment)
Her mother called her "Oak." She believed in the power of names and held that when her daughter grew up she would be strong and unbent by the weight of time. She called her "Beautiful" because she had never been called that by her own mother and the taste of it was like honey on her tongue. She called her "Merry" so that she would always smile, despite the pain life often brings.
She called her all of these things and she named her "Melody" because she was a tune to the song she had dreamed as a girl.
Melody was her mother's only child, though her father may have had many scattered across the countryside. When she was just shy of walking, he ran. The arms of another woman seemed to be far more enticing than the love of a scarred teenager and infant girl. Her mother never spoke a word against him; the love she carried for him remained as a silent wish that he would return and she never married.
"My beautiful and merry Oak," her mother would say, smiling in her sad way. Melody would touch the map of her mother's face, tracing scars created by hands she would never see, smoothing the wrinkles caused by a treacherous childhood and an adulterous man. Her mother would kiss her cheek and put her to bed with a worn, slightly torn, stuffed lion, a gift from her father when they met. It still smelled of his after shave, ever so faintly, and she would pretend not to notice the smell of lilacs. It lingered from the many times her mother had held that beloved toy to her breast and cried.
Melody never gave a thought to her appearance. She was a knock-kneed child, a smattering of chocolate colored freckles across her nose and cheek bones. She wore her dark brown hair in twin braids, tied with yellow ribbons, and her eyes were different colors. Her left eye was a very dark blue, almost black, and her right was the green of the ocean preluding a storm, silver flecks of lightning lingering in the depths of the iris. Her mother said it was because she had a trace of fairy blood and, alternately, that she had been murdered in a past life.
"When you were born, my beautiful, merry, Oak," her mother would say. "your hair was the color of a rose and your father laughed. His mother, your grandmother, had red hair and she was as wild as daisies in spring. Your father wanted to name you after her, but she had a name that would stand your pretty hair on end and make your toes curl. She was wild, but she was sour. I named you after the song in my heart, because you gave it a melody."
To Melody, her mother was the most beautiful woman on earth. She had the palest blue eyes, the whitest hair, the veins showing pale blue beneath her, almost, translucent skin. She had a heart shaped face, her almond shaped eyes carrying what seemed to be a thousand years worth of sparkling grief and sorrow. She had a scar across her face, a lash from a heartless father years ago, that split her face on the diagonal. It was thin and pink, a perfect slash across her face. On her right cheek she bore the mark of a ring, a ring Melody's father used to wear on his left hand. Now the ring hung on a tiny chain of silver, almost in homage to the face it had scarred, around her neck.
At fifteen, the age at which her mother had given her life, Melody discovered a love for music and the piano. They were quite poor, but her mother found ways to pay for the weekly lessons, even finding enough to buy a small, second hand, piano. It would not fit in their room, a room they rented in the house of Mrs. Garfield, an ancient and coarse widow from Germany, but her mother was determined that she should have it.
"Mrs. Garfield, a piano would brighten up the parlor. We could put it by the bay windows, maybe put a few potted plants on it. She would only need to practice three times a week. It won't be in the way if we push it up against the wall just over there." Her mother wheedled and coaxed until Mrs. Garfield finally gave her consent, somehow turning the story around so that she came out as the advocate of the idea and Melody's mother the detractor.
They took in extra laundry from the other tenants, even taking in Amos Abernathy's dingy long johns for the washing, though they reeked of alcohol and urine. Her mother said it was because he had lost his wife to pleurisy, but everyone knew it was because he had beaten her into an early grave. She never spoke an ill word against anyone, though Melody couldn't understand why not. Mrs. Garfield was cold, at best; Amos Abernathy was a drunk and a brute; her own father had been cruel, leaving the marks of his wrath across the creamy complexion of her face. Yet, she never spoke an unkind word toward any of them, silently accepting the abuses and the circumstances as they came.
Melody could not, clearly, remember when she made the transformation from child to young woman, but one day, seated at the piano, she realized that she had become less gangly and she no longer wore her hair in childish braids. She had become soft in areas, her body ripening in ways she did not understand. She caught herself gazing into the looking glass more often, patting her hair into place self consciously. Her mother had to adjust the seams of her favorite dresses to accommodate her newly developing body and the young men she had grown up with suddenly looked at her with a hunger she did not understand.
"My beautiful and merry Oak," her mother said, dusting the piano as if it were made of glass and avoiding looking at her. "there are many things you must know, now that you are a young woman. There are men, even those you believe that you know, who may try to take advantage of your age and beauty. They will tell you that they love you, that they will always love you. They will flatter and wheedle, but you must resist them, my darling. You must resist until you truly believe you love them in return. You will believe you do at first, flattered is a close feeling."
She called her all of these things and she named her "Melody" because she was a tune to the song she had dreamed as a girl.
Melody was her mother's only child, though her father may have had many scattered across the countryside. When she was just shy of walking, he ran. The arms of another woman seemed to be far more enticing than the love of a scarred teenager and infant girl. Her mother never spoke a word against him; the love she carried for him remained as a silent wish that he would return and she never married.
"My beautiful and merry Oak," her mother would say, smiling in her sad way. Melody would touch the map of her mother's face, tracing scars created by hands she would never see, smoothing the wrinkles caused by a treacherous childhood and an adulterous man. Her mother would kiss her cheek and put her to bed with a worn, slightly torn, stuffed lion, a gift from her father when they met. It still smelled of his after shave, ever so faintly, and she would pretend not to notice the smell of lilacs. It lingered from the many times her mother had held that beloved toy to her breast and cried.
Melody never gave a thought to her appearance. She was a knock-kneed child, a smattering of chocolate colored freckles across her nose and cheek bones. She wore her dark brown hair in twin braids, tied with yellow ribbons, and her eyes were different colors. Her left eye was a very dark blue, almost black, and her right was the green of the ocean preluding a storm, silver flecks of lightning lingering in the depths of the iris. Her mother said it was because she had a trace of fairy blood and, alternately, that she had been murdered in a past life.
"When you were born, my beautiful, merry, Oak," her mother would say. "your hair was the color of a rose and your father laughed. His mother, your grandmother, had red hair and she was as wild as daisies in spring. Your father wanted to name you after her, but she had a name that would stand your pretty hair on end and make your toes curl. She was wild, but she was sour. I named you after the song in my heart, because you gave it a melody."
To Melody, her mother was the most beautiful woman on earth. She had the palest blue eyes, the whitest hair, the veins showing pale blue beneath her, almost, translucent skin. She had a heart shaped face, her almond shaped eyes carrying what seemed to be a thousand years worth of sparkling grief and sorrow. She had a scar across her face, a lash from a heartless father years ago, that split her face on the diagonal. It was thin and pink, a perfect slash across her face. On her right cheek she bore the mark of a ring, a ring Melody's father used to wear on his left hand. Now the ring hung on a tiny chain of silver, almost in homage to the face it had scarred, around her neck.
At fifteen, the age at which her mother had given her life, Melody discovered a love for music and the piano. They were quite poor, but her mother found ways to pay for the weekly lessons, even finding enough to buy a small, second hand, piano. It would not fit in their room, a room they rented in the house of Mrs. Garfield, an ancient and coarse widow from Germany, but her mother was determined that she should have it.
"Mrs. Garfield, a piano would brighten up the parlor. We could put it by the bay windows, maybe put a few potted plants on it. She would only need to practice three times a week. It won't be in the way if we push it up against the wall just over there." Her mother wheedled and coaxed until Mrs. Garfield finally gave her consent, somehow turning the story around so that she came out as the advocate of the idea and Melody's mother the detractor.
They took in extra laundry from the other tenants, even taking in Amos Abernathy's dingy long johns for the washing, though they reeked of alcohol and urine. Her mother said it was because he had lost his wife to pleurisy, but everyone knew it was because he had beaten her into an early grave. She never spoke an ill word against anyone, though Melody couldn't understand why not. Mrs. Garfield was cold, at best; Amos Abernathy was a drunk and a brute; her own father had been cruel, leaving the marks of his wrath across the creamy complexion of her face. Yet, she never spoke an unkind word toward any of them, silently accepting the abuses and the circumstances as they came.
Melody could not, clearly, remember when she made the transformation from child to young woman, but one day, seated at the piano, she realized that she had become less gangly and she no longer wore her hair in childish braids. She had become soft in areas, her body ripening in ways she did not understand. She caught herself gazing into the looking glass more often, patting her hair into place self consciously. Her mother had to adjust the seams of her favorite dresses to accommodate her newly developing body and the young men she had grown up with suddenly looked at her with a hunger she did not understand.
"My beautiful and merry Oak," her mother said, dusting the piano as if it were made of glass and avoiding looking at her. "there are many things you must know, now that you are a young woman. There are men, even those you believe that you know, who may try to take advantage of your age and beauty. They will tell you that they love you, that they will always love you. They will flatter and wheedle, but you must resist them, my darling. You must resist until you truly believe you love them in return. You will believe you do at first, flattered is a close feeling."
Monday, June 2, 2014
Love's Own Madness
If all be, but madness, let me stay where I am, painting the roses red and wishing on stars that never seem to come unhinged. Trusting in one's own madness is the fruit of strange dreams and I, alone, have to believe they are true.
If you but spare a breath for love, I'll gladly run the maze. I'll hap'ly drown, just bid me try. Say one word, tell me true or tell me false, I'll believe whatever you say. Do you love me? Or am I just imagining this poison is sweet?
I am hang'd on your every word, wriggling like a worm on a damn hook. Could you tell me, plainly? Or must I falter on, bewildered and bespeckled with questions? If madness is all that is left me, I shall dress in Juno's gowns and dance about Poseidon's floor.
By Jove, do you have no feelings in your breast for me? Swear on your sword, or swear by my heart that you do not love me and I shall let it all go. I shall burn all the words that have touched my tongue; clench my teeth 'til they forget they knew how to part. Please, I beg you, end the agony you are putting me through.
If all be, but madness, let me stay where I am. I'll gladly paint roses red and wish on stars that are never to fall.
If you but spare a breath for love, I'll gladly run the maze. I'll hap'ly drown, just bid me try. Say one word, tell me true or tell me false, I'll believe whatever you say. Do you love me? Or am I just imagining this poison is sweet?
I am hang'd on your every word, wriggling like a worm on a damn hook. Could you tell me, plainly? Or must I falter on, bewildered and bespeckled with questions? If madness is all that is left me, I shall dress in Juno's gowns and dance about Poseidon's floor.
By Jove, do you have no feelings in your breast for me? Swear on your sword, or swear by my heart that you do not love me and I shall let it all go. I shall burn all the words that have touched my tongue; clench my teeth 'til they forget they knew how to part. Please, I beg you, end the agony you are putting me through.
If all be, but madness, let me stay where I am. I'll gladly paint roses red and wish on stars that are never to fall.
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