The Sailor and the Butterfly (a fable)

The butterfly danced with the sailor for a brief, eternal season.   He cherished her…the strong, delicate, luminously beautiful butterfly…but not nearly as much as he should have (ever and always the fool he.) 

The sailor tried to keep her close while, fear and foolishness ever his dour companions, also keeping her at arm’s length…he watched her shimmering soft and blue, a sailor on celestial wing, in the bright sun of sweet summer and the sparkling stars of quiet autumn.

The butterfly danced, leaving kisses and perfume on his cheeks, and waited as patiently as she could.  And then, of course, she couldn’t wait any longer…time passed by, seas led to other, more golden shores…and she flew away…leaving music in her wake and sad sweet light in his heart.

He was sad and happy when she found a place that truly cherished her…sad and happy when the butterfly nestled into the garden she always deserved…sad and happy that she was with many even though none of them were him. 

And the sailor whispered…on the wandering wind…”I loved you more than I ever said.”

And the sailor whispered…on the wayward wind…”I’m so happy that you’re safe and happy.”

And the sailor whispered…on the wondrous, wondering wind…”Please forgive my coward’s heart.  Please forgive me for not cherishing you as much I should have.”

And the sailor whispered…on the wafting, whispering wind…and prayed that the butterfly, dancing contentedly in her garden, heard…and knew…and sometimes, just sometimes, saved a fond prayer for him.

I Imagine Your Eyes...

I imagine your eyes will save me….your mysterious eyes that speak of passion and romance even in their shyest, most shielded moments…it’s a fool’s errand (it always is) but I am foolish enough to indulge the fantasy just the same. 

Your eyes…your tender eyes…will save me.  Will save me from my shadows…will save me from the fire…will save me from myself.  And I will be whole again.  And I will be happy again.  And I will light a fire in your eyes and spend the rest of my days working tirelessly to keep it there.  I imagine your eyes…they will save me.

I imagine your touch…your gentle arms, your tender kiss, your sweet bosom, your delicate but strong hands…I imagine your touch will save me.  It is, again, a fool’s errand (nobody can save us if we can’t save ourselves) but, again, I am foolish enough to reach for the dream just the same. 

Your touch….your tender touch…will save me.  Will save me from my books and my poetry…will save me from the cold, lonely nights….will save me from myself and my missteps.  And I will be whole again.  And I will be whole for the first time.  And I will be happy again.  And I will be really happy for the first time.  And I will take you into my arms and shelter you from the world while you shelter me from the world.  I imagine your touch…your touch will save me.

I imagine your heart…your mighty heart that I know without really knowing it all…I imagine that your heart will save me.  It is, of course, a fool’s errand (a bittersweet and eternal journey) but I am foolish enough to wonder what the world would look like with your heart in my corner.  

Your heart…your mighty, guarded, shimmering heart…will save me.  Will save me from the sad songs and happy feints…will save from the heartache of memory true and memory false…will save me from starry eyed self and let my make believe heart float gently down to real earth.  And I will be whole.  And I will be happy.  And I will save a place for your heart in mine and spend the whole of eternity trying to make myself worthy of that trust.

I imagine…I imagine your eyes will save me…

Sweetheart Like You

“What are you doing?”

She unbuttoned her blouse and moved closer.  Her breasts…not too large as to distract from the rest of her enticing body, not too small as to disappoint the primal male libido…were sheltered in playful black lace; they were certainly still pert enough to command attention.  She’d let him touch them once…an awkwardly endearing moment on a cool, moonlit night that he both treasured and regretted…and he wanted to touch them again.

“I know what you want, baby,” she said in that voice…the one that was an absurdly intoxicating blend of coquettish girl and humid woman…that she knew worked on men all too well.  “I know what you need.”

His breathing quickened and he felt an urge to press her against the wall…to kiss her mouth ruthlessly…to press his crotch against hers pinning her helplessly…to hold her fast with one hand while allowing the other to take proprietary hold of playful black lace.

But his eyes narrowed instead.  “What the hell are you doing?”  He took a half step back even though part of him was screaming to take an irrevocable step forward.

She paused, looking both confused and slightly insulted.  “I can help you.  I know you’ve been sad.  I know you’ve been angry.  I know what you need…what you’ve always wanted.  Let me help you.” She took a half step forward putting her tiny, warm hand on his shirt.  She leaned up until her face was almost, but not quite, touching his.  “Let me help you, baby boy.”

She smelled like strawberries.  Strawberries and cream; strawberries and cream, imported beer and domestic cigarettes…and sex…she smelled like libidinous, raucous, bittersweet sex.  Many a time he’d wanted to get lost in her dark eyes…get tangled in the soft expanse of her dark hair…touch the sweet curves of her woman’s body…kiss the rosy pout of her forbidden lips.  His breathing got shallow and his unthinking penis rose to expectant attention.

But, gently, his pushed a half step back.  “I don’t want to have sex with you.”  It was half a lie but he was resolute.  His penis pouted and let some blood flow back into regular circulation.

She looked more confused, more insulted, disappointed and relieved.  “Yes you do,” she insisted.  “I’ve seen the way you look at me sometimes…I’ve heard the jealousy that creeps into your voice when I tell you about my lovers…you’ve always wanted to touch me…to kiss me…to fuck me…” 

He wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince him or herself.  It didn’t matter.  It was true, of course, he had wanted her…sometimes he still wanted her.  She was one of those women that men couldn’t help but want…when her inner light was shining she was smart and funny, beautiful and sexy, laughing and approachable, alluring and energetic, strong and vulnerable, slightly mysterious and seemingly waiting to be swept away and ravaged passionately.  He’d seen that the moment he met her.

“Yes,” he admitted, “I have wanted to.”  He took a deep breath.  “But I’m not supposed to.”

She frowned and looked up into his dark eyes.  “Why not?”

That was the question, he thought.  “It’s not who I’m supposed to be with you.” 

They’d known each other for what seemed like all their lives…known each intimately from the very first moment they met.  They’d known each other through magical, musical nights…through moments of heart-breakingly intimate vulnerabilities, feints and truths…through doomed unions with other people…through life and death, laughter and tears, sweet dreams and bitter reality.  They’d known each other in light and in the persistent darkness that colored their souls in ways most people didn’t care to try to recognize.

“Who are you ‘supposed’ to be then?”

He reached up and touched her face; she nuzzled into his touch, her eyes liquid and hopeful.  “I’m your friend, sweetheart,” he said, whispering huskily.  “I’m your friend…your brother…your confidant…your baby and your daddy.  I have been your platonic husband…filling in the emotional spaces that your real husband couldn’t…or wouldn’t…fill…”

She started to say something…to protest perhaps…but she didn’t.

“I love you, girl,” he said, “and I know you.”

“What do you know?” she said, pouting and just a bit defiant. 

“I know that you need me not to be another man looking to feed off your light while ignoring your darkness because he doesn't want to deal with it,” he said.  “I know you need me to be a man…to be the one man…who loves you but who isn’t trying to fuck you in one way or another…”

Her lip trembled and her eyes started to tear.  She buried her face against his chest and he held her close, stroking her hair and murmuring gentle endearments.  “I hate you,” she said into his chest.

He laughed softly and moved her head back from his chest.  “No you don’t,” he said bending down to kiss her forehead.

She smiled shyly.  “No I don’t,” she said pressing her head back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat while he held her close.

The Gallant Lies of Gentlemen Callers

People assured her that the years continued to be kind to her.  Sometimes she even chose to believe it. 

Her heart, she told herself (and anybody who would listen), was spent…it was done with the bittersweet games of passion and desire.  This too was something she told herself that she believed…but, of course, she knew that to be a lie.

Memory conspired to keep her heart bright with hope and longing despite her cynical feints.  She remembered, with humid affection, the soft lips and rough hands that had thrilled and soothed her in days gone by. 

She remembered, with a dreamer’s abandon, terrifying and thrilling falls into the stormy seas of love, sinking and swimming hand in hand with others sinking into those same roiling, calming, mysterious and utterly familiar waters.

She remembered the smiles in heated whispers…the lightning in trembling lips…the gallant lies of gentlemen callers at the door of her hopeful heart.

The years continued to be kind to her…she hadn’t received the last Valentine of her journey…she remembered passion and expected it to return in due course…people assured her…she, more tentatively, assured herself.  Sometimes she, demurely defiant, dared to believe it.

A Song

Somehow she talked her way onto the stage. She waved at me and smiled impishly. And then she whispered something to the pianist and then took center stage. The lights went down and the spotlight haloed her. Curious people in the club looked up from their drinks and conversations and the pianist started to play and the rest of the band effortlessly fell in with him.

And she sang a song for me. A simple but incredibly sweet love song I had never heard before. Her gaze was gently relentless and her voice was husky and sultry and enormously arousing. The rest of the people in the club faded away as I watched her sing…she sang for me, that crazy, beautiful, uncomfortably young woman, and I felt my heart melting and surrendering moment by magical moment.

I had told her she was too young. I had told her I was too old. I had told her…

The club erupted into heartfelt applause as she finished and took a bow. She flashed that wondrous smile of hers and then she kissed the pianist on his cheek.

She bounded across the club and surged into my arms. “I make you crazy sometimes, don’t I?” she said, just a bit afraid of what I was going to say.

I looked into her sparkling, earnest eyes and shook my head. “Sometimes,” I agreed. Her face clouded over a little but I bent forward and kissed her forehead. “But mostly you make me happy…”

She smiled and hugged me close. “I told you I’m gonna make you love me, old man,” she said, burying her head against my chest. “How am I doin’?”

I gave her a squeeze and kissed the top of her head. “Pretty damn good, young lady,” I said truthfully. “You’re doing pretty damn good.”

150 Words: She Was Like That (Amanda)

Amanda made me smile and then she blew me a kiss and disappeared in a flash (she was quite agile for a big girl)…I shrugged…she was like that…and chuckled.

Even Amanda didn’t know when her whimsy would bring her back to visit me so I didn’t waste time fretting about it. She would turn up…taking a bath at 3 AM or speaking nothing but French and smoking pungent cigarettes or pouting after a year’s absence because someone else was sharing my bed…and I would give her safe harbor until her wanderlust gave her wing once more.

She made me smile…she was like that…she made me laugh…she made my body sing when she kissed me, when we made love and she sighed my name without it seeming like a tease or a practiced ploy. Amanda always made me smile…and she always left…for days, weeks, months…yeah, she was like that.

All You Need is...

“Is it because I’m white?”

The question caught me a bit off-guard, as indeed it was supposed to. “No,” I said, a little bit insulted, “you know better than that.”

She frowned…her mouth unconsciously forming the little girl pout on her woman’s mouth that I found so incredibly fetching that I had to look away…as she marshaled her next argument. There was no way I was going to get out this conversation unscathed.

“If you don’t love me, just say so,” she said finally, her dark brown eyes focused so powerfully on mine that I couldn’t turn away again if I tried.

I took a soft breath, sighing almost inaudibly, as I measured my own words. “I do love you, baby,” I replied truthfully. “How could I not love you? You’re smart…you’re funny…you’re giving and warm and caring…you’re so beautiful it takes my breath away…I’d have to be dead not to love you…”

“Then why…”

“Because,” I said, cutting off the question she’d asked me a dozen times before, “I have a strict rule that I don’t get involved with anyone who doesn’t have a favorite Beatles song…and you, pretty girl, weren’t even born until years after the Beatles broke up…”

That was a new one and she sighed with exasperation and frowned. “I don’t care about that…I love you and you love me, what else matters?”

She was so magnificent in her anger that I wanted to pull her into my arms and hold her for the rest of our lives. “It matters that you’re 23 years old…and I’m not of a mind to steal your youth to get through my golden years…I’m not that guy.”

“But…”

“It matters that you have so much living to do…to finish school…to find a job that excites and engages you…to find someone your own age to love and make babies with…so much to do…”

Tears began to pool in her dark eyes but she defiantly refused to let them fall. “I can do all those things with you…I want to do all those things with you!”

“Baby, I’m more than twice your age…I’ve lived a good portion of my life…I’m old and set in my ways and there’s no way in hell that I’m going let you tie yourself down to me…”

She shook her head and sighed. “I know why you call me “baby”…you’re trying to remind me that I’m “too young” for you…”

I smiled and reached out and stroked her cheek. “Partially,” I admitted, “but also because you are my baby…and because you like it when I call you that…”

She grinned and nuzzled against my hand. “You’re not getting rid of me this easily, old man,” she said resolutely. She surged into my arms and buried her head on my shoulder. “When you’re old and gray, I’ll push your wheelchair and make you oatmeal and love you still with all my heart.”

I closed my eyes and held her tight.

“’All You Need is Love’,” she whispered.

“What?”

“My favorite Beatles song….’All You Need is Love’…wise words, don’t you think?”

I chuckled and kissed the top of her head. “There’s my girl.”

“Damn right,” she said, closing her eyes and relaxing unabashedly in our embrace.

Moments

Troy knew that the kiss was a risky proposition but he didn’t care. If she were to run away into the night never to return he would have this moment. And sometimes moments are all you get.

Sara folded into the kiss, letting down her studied defenses long enough to let the rest of the world mind its own business and let them be, and she felt, fleetingly anyway, safe and…loved…

“That’s all I wanted to say,” he said, hoping to bring some levity to the longing and the awkwardness of the stolen moment.

She looked into his eyes and then, feeling incredibly exposed and vulnerable, she buried her head against the comforting broadness of his chest. “You said it very nicely,” she said with more coyness than a woman of her age should be comfortable with. “I’m so glad that you’re my friend.”

He nodded and smiled, just a bit ruefully. “We aim to please,” he said kissing the top of her head. That moment was done and this moment…the “you know we’re just friends” moment…had taken its place.

They held each other…together and so far apart…and let the moment speak for itself.

Sometimes moments are all you get.

Your Song

It was your song…I wrote it for you…I sang it for you…and you smiled with your eyes and hugged me so tight I thought my heart was going to burst sweetly right there in the bedroom.

I sang it for you…your song…and you looked at me with such love that I had to shy away or be consumed by own passion and joy…I sang it for you…and you swayed to the rhythm and didn’t once make fun of me being so off-key.

It was your song…I wrote it and I rewrote it and I started to toss it out a million times…but I didn’t…I sang it for you…I sang it from my heart…and your heart…your amazing, mighty, mighty heart sang back to me.

It was your song…it is your song still…you kissed me for it…long and slow, sweet as strawberries and electric as thunder…and you made me sing it again…your song…from my heart to yours.

A Case of You

I had a friend who once told of driving cross country…from the northeast to the bohemian expanse of Austin, Texas…with Joni Mitchell’s Blue as her soundtrack. She found mirrors and companions and solaces in the nakedly vulnerable poetry and that lingered with her years later (and, I will presume, even unto today.)

We played at love, she and I, passionately distant for a brief season…joined by poetry and comic books, by music and chastely humid late night phone calls…and then we stopped pretending and went our separate ways.

She comes into my consciousness…at odd times and from odd angles…even unto today and I choose to remember the sweet moments…a song on a heartfelt mix tape that made me feel loved and connected and safe, a “smile in a whisper” (she didn’t like that Fairground Attraction song but it always reminds me of her) in shared wistful, guileless, passionate dialogues shared in the safety of our distant bedrooms…and take the soft, magical joy those sweet moments can bring when I’m open to it.

I’ve thought about the friend I had often lately as I read a biography of Joni that sends me to my CD collection for Miles of Aisles and Chalk Mark in a Rainstorm (surprising and delighting her with “My Secret Place”...see below... on a tape was a sublimely thrilling moment for me) and, yes, Blue. Joni as a soundtrack…I could drink a case of you and I would still be on my feet…works for me…even unto today.

- for Priscilla -

* * * * *

MKW's Pop Culture ramblings: Neverending Rainbow

150 Words: Two Glorious Fools (Dancing)

The summer breeze tickled our faces and we smiled broadly…two glorious fools on top of the world…and shared soft strawberry kisses in the approving sunshine. Hand in hand…so much in love it too amazing to be true…and we leapt into the air…giggling like schoolchildren…and danced in the arms of the wind.

We kissed…dancing…we laughed and sang…dancing…we drew together and completely forgot about the rest of the world…it was just us…two glorious fools…so much in love…and the sun caressed us…dancing…and looked away discreetly as we consummated our passion once more…sweet, sweet dancing.

The early evening cool spilled over us…resting and laughing and smiling knowingly…as we lay in a field of wildflowers…two glorious fools in the arms of the goddess…and prayed that tomorrow would be even half as glorious as today.

The midnight moon blanketed us…slumbering…two glorious fools safe in the arms of evening…same in the arms of each other…dancing…dancing into dreamtime.

Dance

She glanced down as he came out of the bathroom, her eyes playfully hooded and her smile deliberately enigmatic but still undeniably teasing.

He finished toweling off, his skin still humid from the steamy water, and met her gaze. He glanced down and then smiled ruefully. “It’s a grower not a ‘show-er’,” he said, half-proudly, half-defensively.

She smiled brighter and threw open the quilt she was under. “Then pretend I’m from Missouri and show me,” she said, laughing the full-bodied laugh that never failed to thrill and arouse him.

There were times when he thought that she was too thin…that her breasts were too small…that her butt was too flat…but those times were fleeting and quickly forgotten. Most times he was besotted with the willowy curve of her lithe body and that feeling was more than quadrupled now that he was finally seeing her naked and welcoming.

He slipped into bed and pulled the quilt over them. She drew him close and he leaned into a lingering kiss, the blood rushing to his loins. “See?” he said huskily, “I told you…”

She nuzzled his neck, she sighed a long, warm breath. “Stop talking now,” she whispered thickly.

And they danced the dance of passion, bodies explored and entwined…they danced the dance of passion like it was their hundredth time together and not their first.

Afterwards, they lay under the quilt catching their breath while the sweat from their bodies mixed in languid little pools on his chest.

She kissed his shoulder and then snuggled back close to him. “Oh my,” she said without the slightest hint of irony.

His senses were still too fevered for him to be articulate so he settled for a quip. “We aim to please, little lady.”

She laughed that laugh. “Definitely a grower,” she said closing her eyes and luxuriating in the soft waves of passion still coursing through her.

He kissed the top of her head and closed his own eyes.

She's Like Marilyn/Safe Harbor

She’s the kind of woman that some men...that many men...covet…the kind of woman some men...that many men...want on their arms…want in their beds. They want her primal womanhood…so intoxicating and so terrifying at once…they want to imagine the light in her eyes shines only for them and the torrid mysteries of her womanly body have been waiting only for them to discover.

She the kind of woman that some men….that many men…covet. The kind of woman that some men imagine as everything they need to soothe their own needs: a goddess and a lover and a whore…a passionate savior and a selfless healer…a willing and nurturing receptacle for all of their hopes and dreams and their most carnal masculine indulgences.

If they see her pain…most do not…they dismiss it; if they hear the rueful echo in her sensuous laugh…and most do not…they recast it as something musical and magical that suits them, something musical and magical and meant only for them.

She’s like Marilyn, the kind of woman some men…many men…covet. She’s like Marilyn, the kind of woman that some men…most men…don’t care to really try to understand.

(He wants her too. He is a man and her feminine essence inflames his senses and quickens the blood in his loins too. But he sees the pain…sees the longing for someone, anyone, to try to see the little girl inside the powerful woman. He puts aside the aching to be her lover and makes himself a safe harbor…a place she can pull into with her tears and her laughter…her dreams and her foibles and her longing to be really seen and understood rather than just selfishly coveted and callously used. He loves her...as confusing and painful as that can be sometimes... and he passionately wants to be her safe harbor as much as…perhaps even more than…he wants to make her his own.)

She’s the kind of woman…she’s like Marilyn, full of passion and sorrow, longing and disappointment, full of the weight of disappointments and the lingering light of a hopeful, passionate heart…she’s the kind of woman that some men…many men…covet.

A Few Good Things Remain

I sometimes wonder if you think I still think of you. I do. And I’m sure you know that I do.

In the quiet hours…the soft minutes when memory rules and “what if?” becomes a doleful mantra…I still think of you…I still reach out for you with my heart…and I am still comforted though time and circumstance, foolish decisions of mine and the affection of others try mightily to put a lie to that.

I think of your smile…and the shyly passionate way you folded into my arms, into our kisses…I think of the easy way you laughed when I said something silly and the gentle way you sighed when our bodies were joined…and I am gladdened again.

In the quiet hours…the soft minutes…when memory takes hold…when “what if?” mocks me with gentle melancholy…I think of you…and the music you picked as our soundtrack…and even in the moments when hope seems a distant memory and love just a rapidly fading mirage, I know that a few good things do indeed remain.

- for my Mariposa (still and always) -

Too Close to the Sun (a fable)

Once upon a time…which, as good folk of all ages know, is when all good stories begin…there was a remarkable woman. She was a beautiful girl with a beautiful mind and a beautiful spirit…she had long dark hair and sparkling brown eyes and a smile that could effortlessly warm the coldest heart.

It was a glorious day and the woman and the man…a stalwart fellow of seemingly dour mien (though those who bothered to look close could see the twinkle in his dark eyes and the evidence of many, many smiles and laughs plain to see at the corners of his mouth where his full lips met his full black beard)…were on a verdant cliff over looking the lush seaside valley where they both lived.

“I’m a grown woman,” the woman pouted, futzing with the golden cord secured around his waist, “I don’t need this.”

The man, holding a coil of golden cord in his big hand, stepped close to her. “Do you trust me?” he asked looking directly into her eyes.

The woman smiled shyly and folded into him. “You know I do,” she said in a small voice, burying her head against his chest and feeling so very comforted by the sweet music of his tender heart.

The man smiled and gently kissed the top of the woman’s head. “Then trust me in this.”

The woman sighed petulantly even though she was smiling warmly inside. “Oh, all right.” The woman closed her eyes and hugged the man, part of her never wanting to let go, and then she took a deep breath and stepped up to the edge of the cliff. “I’m ready,” she said her eyes full of awe and wonder as she looked down on the roaring sea and the lush valley and then up into the azure sky.

The dropped the coil of golden corn to the ground and took hold of the tether that went from the coil to his hands to the waist of the woman. “I won’t let you crash,” he promised.

She favored him with a creamy, healing smile. “I know,” she said with an impish wink. She turned back to the edge and took another deep breath. “Hey,” she said looking back over her shoulder and said, “I love you.”

“I know,” he said with an impish wink.

The woman laughed musically and then, with one last deep breath, she leapt. She leapt off the edge of the cliff and plunged a little. And then she soared. She soared up above the lush seaside valley. She soared high into the azure sky, the golden cord secured around her waist glinting in the soft sunshine as it wound down to where the man was carefully letting the coil un-spool while keeping a sure hand on the connection between the woman and him.

Glorying in the perspective from so high, the woman laughed and danced and sang as she soared ever higher.

The sun, in all its majesty, looked down her with affection and admiration.

The wind, feeling a bit bored even on such a beautiful day, caressed her as she soared. “Go higher,” the wind sang, “go higher. It will be okay.”

The woman knew that there was only so far that she should soar lest she suffer the fate of foolish Icarus but her spirit was filled with such unbridled joy that she felt the impulse to heed the entreaties of the mischievous wind.

On the cliff below the man watched carefully making sure his grip on the golden tether was strong and sure.

The woman flew higher, her will to soar ever higher undaunted, and she reached out to touch the very sun itself.

“Careful, daughter,” the sun said, “do not get too close to me, I cannot temper my heat and my radiance.”

“Don’t listen, girl,” the wind said, “it will be fine if you go higher.”

The woman stretched out her hand…and then she stopped. There was a tug around her waist and she could go no further. Below, the man had pulled back on the golden cord and was pulling her back from the precipice of danger.

“No,” the woman said, looking longingly up at the luminous sun. But she did not fight as the man gently pulled her back into the expansive azure sky.

“No,” the bored, mischievous wind, said blowing hard and making the woman lose her way for a moment.

Startled by the sudden shift in the wind, the woman lost concentration and began to fall towards the ground…towards the verdant hill and the lush seaside valley…below. At first the woman started to panic but then she remembered the man’s promise and she took a deep breath. She closed her eyes and allowed the warm of the sun and the coolness of the breeze to steady her resolve and calm her mind.

The wind, feeling guilty that the game had gone too far, rushed down to slow her.

Below, the man took a deep breath and kept his eyes fixed on the woman. He reeled in the golden cord furiously and, with the aid of the guilty wind, the woman glided down into his waiting arms.

The woman opened her eyes when she felt herself gently embraced by the man’s strong arms.

“Hello,” the man said, smiling with relief, “thanks for trusting that me.”

“Hello,” the woman replied, looking up into the man’s smiling dark eyes, “thanks for keeping your promise.”

The man let the woman down and she reached up and hugged him. “I want to go back up,” she whispered.

The man nodded. “I’m ready when you are.”

She smiled her bright and creamy smile and went back to the edge of the cliff.

“Hey,” the man, getting a good grip on the golden cord, called out, “I love you.”

The woman giggled joyfully and looked back over her shoulder. “I know,” she said with an impish wink.

And then, undaunted, she leapt off the cliff again and soared back up into the azure sky.

The wind danced with her, caressing her face and making sure she flew high but not too high.

The sun looked down proudly at his bold daughter dancing in the azure sky and his stalwart son holding steady on the verdant cliff.

The man looked up and smiled as the woman’s happy laughter echoed across the lush seaside valley below.

And the woman…the beautiful girl with the beautiful mind and the beautiful spirit…soared gracefully…joyfully…surely. She soared with a wisdom that had eluded foolish Icarus….close enough to the sun that she was bathed in its glory but no so close as to be immolated.

And she lived (and learned and laughed and loved) happily ever after…which, as good folks of all know, is how all good stories unfold.

150 Words: Moonlight

The moon, if it was out at all, was obscured by clouds…but he had already rewritten the memory to include a full measure of warm, golden moonlight…it just felt more right that way.

The ocean sang its eternal song, an amazing soundtrack to a sweetly amazing evening, and he was sitting in the cool sand, his heart racing, his senses captivated, his arms around the girl snuggled comfortably against his chest. Yeah, there just had to be moonlight.

The moon, her radiant smile beaming approvingly, witnessed the moment and he, for too brief a moment, forgot that there was anyone else in the world other than the girl…he willfully forgot that they would not…could not…ever be together for more than the fleeting moments they defiantly took for themselves.

The ocean shared its song…Luna shared her tender moonlight…and the moment lingered just long enough for him to know it was real.

Making April Smile (a Valentine's Day remembrance)

When I was 11 I gave a Valentine to April Brown. I wrote a little note in the card but I didn’t sign it…at the time I was much too shy for that…but I imagined that she would know that it was from me. If she did she never showed it…I’m not sure she knew that I was alive (my empathy for Charlie Brown and his unrequited passion for the Little Red Haired Girl was never so powerful)…but the pleased and puzzled little smile the blossomed unbidden on her face when she looked at the little card and read its inscription was reward enough for me.

It was, in fact, an electric moment…a moment made more powerful, perhaps, by the clandestine nature of the situation…and in my shy silence I was happy that I had made her smile.

April got a fair number of valentines…she was a pretty girl with an easy smile and the novelty of still being a new student in our school…but she kept putting mine on top. I saw her glancing around the room doubtlessly trying to decide who she wanted her secret admirer to be.

At the end of the school day, she carefully put her little valentines…mine on top…into her notebook and went off happily with the clique of popular girls she had effortlessly become a part of since her arrival. I walked home humming…some wonderful old Motown song…and feeling both happy (for having made April smile) and disappointed (with myself…for not having had the courage to sign the card.)

Still…on balance… it was a lovely Valentine’s Day.

150 Words: She Moves Me

Sometimes her melancholy wounds me…sometimes it arouses me in ways that it probably should not.

She floats through my consciousness and just outside of my grasp, her laughter and her tears coloring my perceptions.

I want to hold her…I want to tell her it’s gonna be alright. I want to comfort her…I want to feel her shuddering underneath me, whispering my name, in the passionate folds of a warm and humid night.

I want to set her to flight…I want to gather her into my arms and keep her forever safe from the cruelty of the mean streets and the unforgiving world. I want to bathe in the light from her dark eyes and luxuriate in the glory of her most guileless smile.

She fills me…she teases me…she inflames me…she doesn’t think of me that way at all.

She moves me…for all that will and will not be…she moves me.

Nightswimming

It took a little while but we were both surprised to find laughter coming to us easily. Years ago we were almost something…but things happened and our paths diverged and we lost touch with each other…and now, through the most mercurial of happenstances, we were together again. Together just for an evening…but together just the same.

The lasagna was settling nicely in my belly and the wine was doing likewise in my head as we walked along the boardwalk. Our hands touched…and then tensed…and then, warily at first, intertwined.

“You remember the last time were out at this beach?”

I smiled patiently. Of course I remembered that night. “Yes, I remember it very, very well.”

“Being drunk and out at the beach at 3 AM is something that you might want to forget.”

We laughed, nervously and humidly, as the sea breezes shuddered through us. We walked onto the sand into the roaring darkness.

“It was about here I think,” I said pointing out towards the surf caressing the shore in the light of the lazy half-moon.

All those years ago when we were almost something we left David’s part feeling tipsy and silly and just adventurous enough to brave the dark night ocean on a summer’s night. We had kissed tentatively and then we’d thrown off all of our clothes and raced…hand in hand…into the icy water.

We frolicked in the icy water, laughing and kissing…night swimming…for a few long, amazing minutes. Then we swam back to shore and ran back onto the beach. We fell in the sand, our clothes as ramshackle blanket, and laughed.

Lying naked in a new moon’s light we had kissed again and then we laid back and looked up at the stars.

“We made love right here,” I said.

“We didn’t make love…we stayed on the sand until we were chilly enough and self-conscious enough to get dressed…”

“Yeah, I know,” I said with a grin, “but I created a whole other memory of that night that I quite liked and so I decided it was the true story…”

“…or at least the better story…”

“Yeah…maybe we should’ve…”

“…but we didn’t…”

I sighed wistfully. “No we didn’t…” I paused and looked out the water. “Well we’re here now…we could…”

There was a long pause. “No we could…but we shouldn’t…”

“Yeah,” I said knowing full well that the moment was back all those years ago and not here and now.

We held hands and listened to the surf until we were chilly enough and self-conscious enough to turn back to the boardwalk…back to the restaurant parking lot…back to our respective cars. We kissed…almost chastely…and then let our paths diverge once again.

A Good Day

“We had some good times too, didn’t we?’

He smiled…nostalgically, humidly…and nodded. “Yes,” he agreed, “we did.”

“Then it was a good thing.”

He nodded again. It was an awkward coming together…they had once meant so much to each other…they had once shared secret smiles and tender kisses…they had once known each other’s bodies in ways that both thrilled and terrified them. And then…suddenly and not suddenly at all…they came apart in waves of acrimony and disappointment and regret.

“Do you ever think about me? Do you remember the good days?

He nodded yet again. “I remember lots of good days. We had lots of good days.”

“Which one was your favorite?”

He took a deep breath and then he smiled again. “The day the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame concert was broadcast. You remember that?”

“Yes. Yes of course I do.”

“We were alone together in that great old house you used to have…the one with all of the nooks and crannies and wonderful angles…with MTV playing the show loud and the two us laughing and drinking raspberry tea…and the two of us cooking side by side in our underwear…and the two of us tumbling in and out of your big, soft bed kissing and touching and discovering new and wonderful angles at which our naked bodies could fit together…”

“Yes…”

“We heard only some of the concert…saw even less…and it was amazing. I’m not sure we were ever as utterly together as we were on that day. It was a good day.”

“Yes, it was a really good day.”

They laughed…remembering and regretting, almost but not quite touching each other…and luxuriated in the precious memory.