Diana.
I wanted
to write a piece for her, but I just slapped her name on some old
ambitions.
So,
this is work? This is me? Well, hardly.
It was with a sad detachment I wrote about what we had, had. God,
I hated that responsibility, choosing to be good.
I am glad you had been there to witness all my weakness.
All the things I initially had worried about, my stubble, showing
up in the same shirt twice. It did not mean a thing, her only concern
was what did I want.
And really, who can answer that out loud to another person and have
it mean anything? Without lies or agenda there is always just silence.
I shut the curtains as she danced around the room. I could tell what
was coming. I used my thirst as an excuse to leave the room. Get the
bottle, let the song die. Gone.
As it goes down, the chill of bourbon, like the internal blossoming
of a kiss. Her hair on my chin, the kerchief placed over the lamp.
Full bloom, the red flower which blossoms in winter.
I was on top. Well, not really, but viewing her back. Hands on hips,
close, now moving away. Saint Christopher gripped the sides of his
oval frame, banging his head against the cross, both in silver
The chain too makes a noise, slight, as it slides across the skin
of my neck.
We come. She sleeps, I think. Deliberately I let both my feet touch
the floor at the same time. An action in which I was in total control,
yet it could still mean good luck.
She would want a big breakfast, I did not have the stomach for that.
Something to celebrate, a reason, an excuse, a sign.
I had not the will. She always burnt the toast, I hated that.
Each year had put a few pounds on her, that I did not mind, it was
the demands which weighed on me.
The boy-girl thing, it was all a pain in the ass.
If I did not have all this I would miss it after the novelty of solitude
wore off.
Even
though it was raining I needed another pack of
The puddle at my feet. At first I think it is all street lights and
raindrops. No, there are tiny stars and a distant moon.
I bend down.
One finger seeks to touch the truth. It is no good, no matter how
soft my touch all I manage is to push everything further into orbit.
Author’s Bio: Wayne is a California based author. More information on his works are available at www.waynewolfson.com
