That frisson of excitement that I once knew so well— that doubling of my pulse rate that rang me like a bell. Back when there was no contest over which would win when impulse clashed with custom. Back when passion was no sin. The sum of all that feeling sent us crashing into life— before you were a husband, before I was a wife.
Remember how exciting those first love wanderings were? Those first stirrings of passion that made us stretch and purr like felines on that blanket stretched out on the grass? Our love was a religion and each touch a holy mass. Our loving was eternal up until the time we parted and each became a memory of when loving first started.
You’ve piqued my curiosity, riled up my blood. Brand new possibilities surge in like a flood. Sages say enchantment is magic of a kind that brings down your defenses and permeates your mind with fantastic possibilities that make it fully probable that heavy hearts inflate until they are light and bobbable.
See them on the tide line, floating all about— free of any tether and free of any doubt. A sea of love ‘s an image once rendered in a song that catches in our hearts and makes them sing along. They form a soft accompaniment to the real world’s roar that’s telling us we’re not the type a lover would adore.
But you’ll find that hearts may come in many makes and guises, and when you set your heart adrift, it just may yield surprises.
The prompt words today were sage, pique, enchantment and blood.
There is no need to instigate a further conversation. I do not wish to carry on further investigation. Your research notes are copious. You are immersed in piles of them. Why must you accumulate miles and miles and miles of them?
Please, conquer your obsession. Let us get on with our lives. Your number one obsession has me breaking out in hives! I rue the day I prompted you to have a little look at what I just considered an entertaining book.
I didn’t have a single clue–not an inkling that you would quickly be obsessed with the Vampire Lestat! A Discovery of Witches then joined your Zombie thing. Every occult creature in graveyard or on wing
has seemed to colonize your mind, squeezing out all other former occupations: football, hockey and your mother!!! This is an intervention. I’m unplugging the TV, seizing all your Anne Rice books. Replacing them with me.
Try to read me like a book. Look here into my eyes. Vampires aren’t the only creatures who can mesmerize. We’ll toss your zombies in a pile and stage a mass cremation. Our sex life should improve a lot with their elimination.
I won’t need to bite your neck. My seductions won’t be gory. They’ll be the furthest thing from an American Horror Story. Things that go bump in the night need not all make you wary. Let me raise your pulse rate by a means that is less scary!!!
Prompt words today are immerse, copious, extreme and instigate.
I wish I’d set the truth aside. I wish instead that I had lied when you asked the reason why I didn’t choose the other guy. I wish I’d said you’d won my heart quickly, from the very start.
But, alas, I told the truth. Blame it on my careless youth. It was, perhaps, naïveté that made me answer you that way. I said you were my second choice, then heard that quaver in your voice.
For all those years forever after, I’ve recalled your bitter laughter as you said you guessed you’d wait for the type of girl who’d rate you first when making her selection, and thus began your swift defection.
After all these years, I’ll tell
that I remember very well
regrets I suffered at your leaving—
all those nights of futile grieving.
Watching as you met your wife,
had your kids and built your life.
Every few years at class reunions
as we all share our fond communions,
I’ll catch your eye and feel the spark
that goes unnoticed in the dark.
And every day, until I die,
I’ll wish I’d told that little lie.
Memories of her
stretch out like a voluptuous lover
over the couch of his mind.
He takes refuge in them in his loneliness,
gathering a sequelae
of the aftereffects of her loss
like a scratchy woolen blanket
drawn by habit,
offering little comfort.
Shadows of leaves stipple the ground in swirling patterns, all around, like footsteps left by tiny feet dancing to the wind’s wild beat. They lessen as the sun goes down and the forest floor turns brown.
The sunlight that all day has made each leaf stand out as dappled shade sinks into some other sky, but soon enough, the moon comes by with shadows of its own to cast. With wind died down, their patterns last, sure and steady, through the night, each ringed by the moon’s soft light.
Staunch resident of the heavens, the moon— your constancy our guide and boon— the pathway that your light lays down brings my lover from the town to stand beneath my bedroom pane, handsome, gentle and urbane, to nightly plead my hand and troth. Soft call of bird and wing of moth likewise beat against the glass, supporting what will come to pass.
Our passion, soon to come to light, was birthed in shadows of the night whereas the light that without fail will fall upon my wedding veil will be the dappled light of sun, revealing what the moon has won.
“Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care, The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, Chief nourisher in life’s feast.”—Wm. Shakespeare
Ravel can mean either to combine thread or to separate it (in linguistics, a word like this is called an auto-antonym). In the sense that it means to combine, unravel developed as a true antonym.—reddit.com
The pain of love unraveling? No one knows it better,
for she wears her heart upon her sleeve, knit into her sweater.
Each day her heart unravels and lies tangled down her arm.
They say it cannot harm her. Loosened hearts cannot do harm.
But she’s a prisoner of these tendrils of love that’s come undone—
the truth of it revealed to her each day by a new sun,
while each night in her dreams, sleep knits it up again
and the ardor of her lost love once more draws her in.
She forgets the present and relives what she once had—
what she imagines in her slumber cancelling out the bad.
This unknitting and reknitting can’t be what life is for.
She must search for her dream’s exit. She must try to find the door.
Cast her old garment on the flames. Burn up that raveled sleeve.
Real love stays firmly knitted. A true love doesn’t leave.