The way your eyes danced when I made you laugh. The shyness, you still had, when I kissed you deeply. The fact your face was the first thought my mind found, when a familiar song started. Honestly, that still happens. When you whispered those words, that you later admitted couldn’t be true. Those words, that my heart rejoiced in hearing. The warmth of your touch, on the coldest mornings and hottest nights. The cute way you would sing, when you didn’t know I was listening. Your dedication to hearth and home. The times you tried, when I didn’t. The fact we shared wins, losses, and laughs no one else could ever get. The way your voice and eye rolls would reassure me. These things I lost, when you realized it was over.
“Darlin…”, the devil said, with a drawl so pronounced, you could smell mama’s chicken and okra on the stove, “…if we are not permitted on occasion, to bathe in the pools of self pity, lathering ourselves with the soothing essence of misery, while washing our hair in the effervescent pearls of despair, then what pray tell are we doing here…”
Her words are carved deep into the signposts of this journey. She speaks with a wisdom, a knowledge of life, it should require lifetimes to amass.
She captivates me. Delighting me with her stunning tales of torment. Allowing me to know her sorrow. To caress her pain. I had thought once, they were a cry for help. I have come to discern, to appreciate fully, that she simply reflects my own despair.
As words spoken into a deep and wide canyon, her utterances, are as an echo reverberating back to me. Delivered by her voice calm and sweet her tear stained narrative seduces my soul.
She makes me laugh as often as we share a tear. Though it is the misery which has bound we two together. To the affliction of adoration we are tethered.
Reminding me of the heavy cost exacted in anguish born of having danced too…
Only an observation, likely something suggested
in folly. We can keep on wishing darlin’. Or we
can embrace opportunity.
Rolling with the punches
as they say, has come so natural. If indeed
that, something better, presents itself, manifesting
our truest desire, perhaps we will see it more
easily if we engage in the mundane earnestly.
Falling on ears abundantly deaf, refusing to linger in
absurdity. Retreating headlong into the soothing
premise found in the certainty of the unknown.
A stage crafted solely to depict the harmonious
performance, of two very well rehearsed puppets.
Each player reciting their parts of the well worn
Wagering none of the sentiment
proves the safer bet.
Does she still laugh at silly things. I haven’t heard it for so long. There was a time back before our lives took separate paths, when we would finish one another’s sentences. Her laugh would hold me spellbound, it was like an addiction I craved.
That kind of connection in my experience is rare. I have never known another that way. I have known a deep love, but that was a unique bond shared between two.
Life, love, work, and it seems time itself came between us. I do cherish the laughter we shared, even more so now. I can’t help but wonder after these years of being apart if those days, those fleeting precious moments really, still surface on days like today in her mind.
Are there times when she needs a friend, and she can recall that gentle flowing conversation. Do her memories include visions of the young man who gladly played her clown. Just so he could catch a glimpse of her smile and hear her sweet laugh. She likely packed it away neatly. I may just be longing for a time when everything made sense. When the uncertainty of tomorrow held magical possibilities. She would say no regrets, live and laugh.
‘That’s when I wake up. When I am almost to the door of the hotel. I am sane enough to know it is a dream. I tell you though, I can feel my feet on that pavement. I can smell the rain in the air. Her sweet voice calling to me…Robert from the balcony.. Her dress, the sound of the people in that square…so vivid.’
The psychiatrist stood. “That will be all today Robert. We will talk soon. Try to rest.”
‘She knows me somehow. I have seen her four nights in a row. I can’t explain it. I just know I need to get to her Doctor.’
The heavy door shuts behind the doctor, who is looking down at the clipboard in his hand. Trying to rationalize what he has heard. He still wanted to go there, one way or another, and to find that brunette, if she existed.
No explanation, makes any sense for the condition. His colleagues are just as puzzled as he. Robert is the third person this month…to tell Doctor Bill Jennings this same story…verbatim. All seemingly unrelated individuals, describe the same square, hotel and brunette in red on the balcony.