Monday, March 17, 2008

Monday, March 17, 2008. Was that the door or was that the phone? It could just be the end of your dreams. It's at least the beginning of your day. This is your morning wake-up call.

"This time is love." She grabbed the pen from my pad and tossed it into the wayward snow. She took my wrist and made me palm the ice, first I flinched from the cold but I palmed it with the flurries and shards escaping through my open fingers. How many words were written? Must have been thirteen. The moisture formed from the warmth of my plumping hands, blood rushing through to melt the ice around me, much colder wet than that sharp dry pain. I looked up to the sky, no clouded shadow, no buried atmosphere, all open for creation. The earths twigs towered above us,stretching , trying to cover it, but the waif like bends and pale bare bones don't do much that show how dark it really is, dark and wide. The sky mocks our pond even as it holds strong to the white, so white it almost turns blue from layer to layer of sheets of ice. The same way fire flicker blue flame the hotter it gets. Blue as the color of the extreme, "What is on your knee?" she said, staring through torn jean? The red seeped onto the ice, almost brown, maple syrup lumping, trying not to spread anymore than it had to. A scab already starting to form. I rubbed it off with my jean and said she would be the worst wife in the world. "But you'd still marry me." Hazel eyes, chocolate hair, dark like the devil. The eyes, the legs, the jaw. I pictured long legs hanging out of bathtubs,stilettoed and what was under those bubbles? What what? Was there a heart or just warm flesh? Either would do. I could feel my heart beating. Can you? Wake up.