I am thinking of you so far away.
You must be sleeping now.
Snoring and alone – waiting for me to place myself inside your arms.
Your sounds comfort and reassure me.
I long for you.
What you have given me . . .
– more than the food I eat
or the greeting cards I read
– more than the things we plan
or where we decide to meet
– more than the gifts you give
or the way you make me feel
You have given me something I can cling to . . .
There he is, so handsome in his dark suit and white dress shirt. Even the sun celebrates our reunion as she bounces off the skyscrapers and dances teasingly on the rim of his glasses.
“Julia!” He calls to me.
I love the way he says my name. It sounds so eloquent and romantic, adorned in his educated accented European-ness.
I go to him and climb into his open arms.
My hands slide beneath his suit and pull him close. My face finds that place where his neck and shoulder meet, and nestles there. His shirt is crisp, cool, and fresh. I like its starchy white formality. His muscles tighten beneath my hands. I like that, too.
We stand still in our embrace. I could stay this way forever and live a lifetime with my face buried in the safety of his shirt.
Passion, like hunger, will subside if you ignore it long enough. Things go silent. I thought them departed, but they were only dormant.
Now he is igniting me; like starting a car . . . or a fire.
Through closed eyes the moments come, overwhelming me, reminding me . . . of all the wanting, of all the empty nights, and the eternal missing hours.
“Uhhh . . . I forgot how good this feels” I whisper.
He pulls me closer.
“I’m so glad I forgot”, I whimper, “It would have been excruciating”.
Remembering that this is just a visit and our time limited, a feeling of dread washes over me as a new thought comes. I say nothing and quietly fight the tears . . .
“Now, I will have to forget all over again.”
Embrace the day
clouds and blue
no thoughts of you
The sun goes orange
and fades to grey
embrace the calm
remains of day
It’s when the blue
fights with the night
my heart aches with
lack of might
This missing hour . . . eternity
until, my love, you’re next to me.
I wonder what you’re running from
always choosing to do the most wonderful things
when it doesn’t have to be that way
Is there just no room for someone else?
Or you make no room?
You long for the closeness of another person
yet you continue to push me away
You rush through these days as if they will never run out
and you spend your time hoping for better things to come
the whole while . . . you’re spinning right past it all
Are you afraid? Because that I can understand.
But fear follows us, so beware.
And be brave.
Or you will miss out on all the good stuff.
It’s a cool crisp autumn night as we lay in the meadow, side by side, both of us looking up at the stars.
I want to close my eyes and absorb this moment, but I’m afraid I’ll awaken to find this a dream and him no longer here. This time I’ll have to dream with my eyes wide open.
I hear his breathing and feel his heart beating next to mine, through the ground, I muse. I have fallen asleep many nights to this image. I open my mouth to speak, but don’t.
I like the cold night air snapping at my face and the smell of the damp grass and the warmth of him next to me. I try to breathe it in and save it; rare and wondrous are these moments.
He adjusts himself on the ground and pulls me into his arms. I silently thank God and look upwards, expecting to see the stars perfectly aligned. But they are beautifully scattered and look the same, only brighter and twinkling.
I want to laugh and elbow him in the ribs and say, “What in the hell took you so long?”
And then I want to bury my head in his chest and cry for all the pain I’ve ever suffered and sob to him, “What in the hell took you so long?”
But I don’t.
I long to close my eyes and be enveloped, but I’m still afraid that this is all a cruel dream and I’m not ready to know it.
I turn and look at him and choke back the tears. And silence the sentiment. And try to control the giddiness. I don’t say any of the clever things I’ve been saving up for him.
I touch his face, reluctantly close my eyes, and kiss him.
He is exactly as I remember from another place in time.
His lips move slightly from mine and I open my eyes and let my fingers touch the warmth of his mouth.
“What in the hell took you so long?” He whispers.
You lie coiled in embryo sleep
below the blue painting of the fisherman;
the checkered blanket tousled on the floor.
This old house creaks in reply to the quiet wind.
A car passes
and the glow of the streetlamp
dances through the shutters in hysterical patterns.
I lie engulfed by emptiness.
Moving silently, disentangling myself from you,
I grope in the dark for cigarettes.
Across the room I sit observing you.
Otherwise, there is no change;
not in the way you lay curled up . . .
not in the sounds that never come from you . . .
not in the discontent I feel.
The first time he telephoned, we talked for over an hour. He made me feel light and funny and girly. And I liked it. Normally I don’t slow dance; I’m terrible at it. I get tense and become as stiff as a board. But that night on the phone, I danced. He led, but I didn’t need to follow. Because he carried me; my feet never touched the floor.
“I almost didn’t call you” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Oh, it just gets to be a little too much, you know? All these first dates; I wasn’t sure if I should bother.” He said.
“Really?” I asked, miffed that he wasn’t more excited, “What made you decide to call then?”
“WHAT?” I shrieked. “You flipped a coin?! Are you serious? Ha ha ha!”
“Yep. I flipped a coin.” He said.
“Well, what won?”
“Heads. So I called you.” He said.
The next night we met for dinner and had a wonderful evening. Our conversation was constant, natural, and excited; and our laughter seemed to last for days. I’ll bet the sparks of our attraction could be seen from afar, like the flicker of fireflies on a hot summer’s night.
After several hours, he reluctantly paid the bill and walked me to my car.
“Can I kiss you goodnight?” He asked as he gently brushed the hair from my face.
I reached into my purse and pulled out a quarter.
“I don’t know. Call it: Heads or tails?”