Your fingers slid down my spine.
Four demanding, nocturnal snakes
slithering in the darkness.
Madly dashing for the little gilt knob at my base.
There, you could trip the switch and
turn me on. And I would sing. I would sing, and
sing the omen of little deaths to come.
I loved you in the darkest of night.
And somehow I expected the imperfect light
of the moon’s crooked smile
to light me up like daybreak.
But you were a lame sunrise.
You were a harrowing curve
and I was scattered as broken glass.
I was scattered as change spilled from your hand,
rolled across the hard, tiled floor.
I was a head’s down penny
and my copper had lost its luster,
so that even then,
in my weakest moments,
I was not worth the effort
There is promise in the new year, in the fresh turn of the calendar page.
There is a resolute melody of positive change and growth.
There is hope lingering in each little, numbered box.
There is a conscious resolve hanging on the edge of that shining Time’s Square ball, that pushes us forward in happy motion.
And yet, let the dates fly by until another birthday approaches.
Let the candles pile upon the cake and watch death’s shadow creep, unwelcomed, unbidden, to leave a black mark that mars this passing of time.
It’s amazing how we view the passing of time, how certain events leave us feeling hopeful, and others simply remind us that we only have a short time here on this earth. I hope you all have a wonderful new year and that you are living your life to the fullest.
The bright light of morning crept through the cracks in our curtains,
shattered across your skin in an astonished display
that outlined the deep blue of your nightgown.
It broke a pattern of light and shadow across your face,
and I let my fingers wander to the lacy edge
draped along your thigh.
Morning’s red rose lips kissed the snow white skin,
there, on the soft spot at your wrist.
For a brief moment, before the light slid heavy and thick
up to completely illuminate your sleeping eyes,
I found myself afraid.
Afraid of what the night had left, scattered about my bed.
Afraid of what the light had shown;
and that somehow it would disappear.
This time of year makes me think so much of people who are no longer with me. I remember this woman, from entirely too many years ago. It didn’t last long, but I always wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t been so afraid of commitment back then. She was beautiful…
I am a wide range of musical tastes.
I am the savage beating drums of a war dance,
the tense build-up of an ancient overture.
I am vengeful in my need for an audience.
I am needy and blaring,
turned up on high volume.
I am a wide range of musical tastes.
All a little sour, all out of tune.
You have left behind a small bedroom, engulfed by the bulky hospital bed with its folding mattress and steely grey rails.
You have left behind an old red recliner, and I sit in it and remember that the wooden handle no longer works and the deep creak in its rock sounds like the background music to midnight conversations, whispered in the hushed stillness of a sleeping home.
You have left behind a closet full of blue dresses and a red cape, and I never would have known that your favorite color was pink, until you asked for a dress to be buried in and smiled when the rose colored sheath was unfurled from its bag, petals opening in front of a sunset.
You have left a trunk full of love letters and silk scarves and stories I was never old enough to ask you for, so that now I sit and wonder about the woman in the picture, legs propped up on the steps, her skirt sliding up to show off her slender calves.
I have days of work ahead of me, maneuvering the remnants of life from present to memory, and you have left your scent in the sheets, your powder on the bathroom sink, your gold pocket watch on the dresser, and me.
You have left behind me.
This has been a six sentence story. You can find out more about them and this week’s prompt, here.