The morning sun was like a torch turned loose
and the flames were licking the edges of the room,
ravaging the shadows as I dreamed in your bed.
Spring was parting the lazy sheer curtains
with pulsating breaths, and then you walked in
on your soft bare feet and came to me.
My first ethereal awareness of it
as though it were a waking dream...
arose from the silk tips of your hair
falling down around my neck, your fingers
the fingers of a sculptor, a liberator,poised before an uncut bronze under a lamp...
like gauze linen brushing my face, and then
blade upon metal, a shower of sparks,the chisel driving out the emerging shapes,the shapes embracing and
suddenly your lips there,
wet and beautiful and playful and I
closed in on them, opened my eyes and there
was your sparkle your skin trembling your
breath rising and crashing in waves
and we—
and then consciousness slapped me in the face.
The hot, molten sculpture of our movement
stopped cold as I awoke this morning
knowing too well it was summer, not spring,
and knowing too late that you were miles away,
thousands of miles away—and that you never
came to me. We never took it. We played a baited
game and forced ourselves to acquiesce to safety—
and safety can never be rightly called love—and the
mystery died, starved of its air, fearful of its own
power, until nothing was left but this dream on
paper, suffocating words grasping for fuel and yet
burning like a wild and desperate torch
something pure and hungry and fearless,
something we whispered in the afterglow
of the bedroom, like brushstrokes on canvas,
or hammer strikes, one after another, the sparks
showering the naked floor, the image still perfect
as I lay sweating in an empty bed, the sheets
twisted like wreckage—words made into
ravenous flesh, advancing toward me.
Creative humour, satire and other bad ideas by Ross Murray, an author living in the Eastern Townships of Quebec, Canada. Is it truth or fiction? Only his hairdresser knows for sure.
I'm Michelle. This is my blog. I write about women and fatness, expound upon semi-coherent thoughts I have in the middle of the night, and offer tough love to those in whom I am disappointed; they are legion.
Great Post!
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Thank you!
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“[…] The hot, molten sculpture of our movement
stopped cold as I awoke this morning
knowing too well it was summer, not spring,
and knowing too late that you were miles away,
thousands of miles away—and that you never
came to me. We never took it. We played a baited
game of forcing ourselves to acquiesce to safety—
and safety can never be rightly called love—and the
mystery died, starved of its air, fearful of its own
power, until nothing was left but this dream on
paper, […]”
I’ve been there…
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Right?!
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Yes, sadly… but also, thinking on it now, lesson learned 😉
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Of course.
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Your words create images of raw intensity… Well done! And thank you for sharing!
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Thank you for reading!
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Words do capture the imagination.
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Wow! Love it
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Thank you!
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Ahh..such a beautiful verse! I so loved it. So intense and so serene.
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I so love that you loved it! Thank you!
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