There they are again, my tears, because what you say resonates so much, touches my heart in a way you’ll never know but probably understand without me saying anything. I just don’t have the words to express myself to you, admits the writer, the one whose love flows right into another poem to hold onto them, my feelings for you out of control. Before you I never believed in that bond I feel whenever you send a picture or a line. But your timing is so impeccable, throws me off balance for you always seem to know when to say what I need to hear or when something preoccupies my mind.
“Is that a hickey you are covering or why are you wearing a scarf,” she asks, unaware of the wound she rips open by asking her question, the inner turmoil I’ve been trying so hard to keep to myself.
“Of course,” I say with a forced little smile, images of my dreams still vivid to me as her curiosity darkens my mind, leaving yet another scar from missing you so badly day and night.
You’ve made yourself comfortable in my head and I never really had a say. I see images of you come and go, always leaving me a little out of breath. Your eyes I usually remember first when you are not here but crave to be alone. And when you’re gone, I wish I wasn’t so shallow as to always revere your beauty first, but it is your inner wealth I love the most. Although I’m not even sure if that’s the truth, because from your eyes, your smile, my thoughts always drift off to the whole of you: your freckles, your mind, your laugh. I wish I could say that’s where I linger, but in my thoughts I’m always quick to explore your scars, dents and curves. And unlike before I do not wish to be repaid for giving you pleasure for it is your happiness I seek above all else.
So there’s a mannequin in our closet at work. She has no head and wooden legs. Her body is white, her curves are womanly, not too skinny, just right. I want to take her home I’ve decided today. She Looks so lonely there, undressed, exposed to us in a way. How pretty my dresses would look on her. How much I’d like to invite her to a dance. That’s what I think when I see her. Now call me crazy, I don’t care.
And there she sat on her couch, slightly depressed in the aftermath of so much action. She hadn’t expected to get so emotionally involved. A women’s march, not her first and yet… So many familiar faces and new ones, too. Men, women and those still undecided at that. Dogs, little ones, flags and so many signs expressing what she felt. She didn’t have a sign at first, had gone there unprepared, overwhelmed by the crowd and cheers. So much energy without the hatred, just hope in her heart from the words surrounding her, the smiles on people’s faces. She had taken a sign after all, offered to her by a girl half her age. So many generations united, so many things to say but her voice had been relentless, stuck in her throat. Tears had come instead. Why she had cried, she still didn’t know as she now sat on her couch, her heart still elated while her mind was battling with the news of the day.
So this is how it starts, my year. Two days of Italian food, French wine and a swift shopping trip to spend the money I don’t have after Christmas. It’s the same every year. Over-indulgence in December, sobering up in January. Only this year I have a hard time cutting back on my spending although I know I’ll make less. But that’s compensation for you, psychology 101: the weather is cold outside and I’ve rarely seen the sun. At least I have my writing, triggered by my muse. I’m surprised she’s still with me though, I rarely sleep these days. I’m glad she isn’t as moody as I tend to be this winter. Hibernating is what I should do or finally book that flight to LA. It’s a lot less chilly there and I miss the place, miss the friends I barely see. But then that requires the kind of money I should safe. Besides, I’ve rarely seen my friends here. So maybe a month off will do me good. Being at home, reading, catching up on shows I’ve missed in recent years. I must admit, I’d prefer doing that in SoCal, where the sun is likely to shine more often than where I am. Where I know I’d go for a walk every day, where I do not bump into police officers frisking people in the metro, patrolling the streets that used to feel safe only a short few years ago. That’s why I’m so feisty, I guess, today. The spectacle of three dark-haired youngsters, surrounded by officers whose hands were glued to their firearms, ready to protect themselves at any minute, it left me strangely affected on the boys’ behalf and ours. My heart was torn as my train left the station, my mind helpless. But it was then that I realized, I’m not yet completely jaded.
Her hair was brunette and curly, her eyes cheerfully intense. Her lips were full and red, graced with a kooky yet bewitching smile. Her voice was lost to him in the crowd until a laugh bubbled up, a sound defying her svelte, delicate form, reaching his ears from across the room, topped with a charming snicker-snort. Her cheeks blushed, her eyes coy upon meeting his. He flashed her a smile, she lowered her gaze, sipped at her drink, flickered her eyes and turned her head away from him who caressed her with attention.
He loved watching her, her dress simple with her embroidered initials, her petticoat full, accentuating her tiny waist as she swayed her hips, unconsciously arousing him by enjoying a melody she seemed too young to know so well. Tapping his finger on a glass of Bourbon, he followed her rhythm, longing to swirl her around in his arms on the dance floor and rock her hips against his own. The glow on her face betrayed her joy, attracting more of his admiration as his eyes drank in a side of her she rarely granted him to see.