It was a sort of lunacy that prompted our grand comedy. One sticky bun, two mugs of tea predated our dependency. As you passed, you looked so yearningly at that last bun, and jealously surveyed my plate most zealously, wishing it had gone to thee.
Later, when you got up to pee, I took note of your truancy and put the bun where it should be— there on your plate. When finally, you returned, you viewed with glee where that bun had come to be, viewing it most quizzically and pondering the mystery of this delicious legacy. You glanced around to try to see its origins, and finally, you saw my empty plate, and me.
I remember with such piquancy how swiftly you ensorcelled me— first with your smile, and eventually by your approach and finally by your sweet generosity as you brought the bun to share with me, sat at my table, crossed foot on knee, and conversed with so much vibrancy that “I” and “you” turned into “we.”
It was our first romantic tryst— A morning tea break with a twist.
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.
I once basked in your bonfire, and though no one quite remembers when we last caught fire, I’m warming fingers at your embers. Slow steady fires that survive, snoozing ‘neath the ashes have the same mysterious lure as winks obscured by lashes. Passion need not flame to warm the cockles of one’s heart. What was a wild onslaught at its very start may settle down to a warm glow or a steady smolder. Loving hand placed over hand —her head upon his shoulder.
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.
When you came into my life, you entered so serenely. How could I have known that you would exit so obscenely? In our twenties, back when we were all consumed by lechery, still, you were the only one who spiced it up with treachery. Before your sweet elixir turned into bitter pill, oh my dear, when love was new, what a delicious thrill. I succumbed to all your kisses, swooned at your good looks. Such a wild departure from chalk dust and from books. That is what we all believed those single years were for. Whatever sweet nights yielded, we always wanted more. But then rude sanity stepped in to alter all our gladness. A crazy sort of love might be revealed as simple madness. So many novice lovers, guided by our lust— all our romantic love stories have faded into dust.
The prompt words were serenely and treacherous. Here are the links:
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.