Magpie Tales 153: Crush

Charlotte Gainsbourg, AnOther via Magpie Tales

Never so jealous of records
'til now, my vinyl rivals lay
on skin, bright, electric
My throat too tight to say

Soundtrack to my puberty
Sweaty hands choke cheap booze
She isn't like the girls used to be
Ravens and swans I dreamt to lose

Holding up the walls, my lip-locked friends
Heart staring, wishing opal eyes on me
Iron-soft hands caress covers, record spins,
I bite back on what will never be

Magpie Tales 135: She Holds the Ocean

Venus and the Sailor, 1925, by Salvador Dali via Magpie Tales

Sinking into her gelid depths
drawn under by aphrodisiac waves
pillowed between gravid curves
pulling me across the rail
swells upon a Mare Libido
into which I fall with abandon
never to be seen again

Let Me Call You Sweetheart

I have to write this from the dude POV, because, well...I'm a dude, and that is somewhat critical to the premise of this post.  So there's that.

Anyway...

The TV was on the other morning, because the Wee Lass was here.  I was listening to it while doing a little web-based chore minding, and a commercial came on for a car insurance company.  At the end of the commercial the perky (and if I'm being honest, cute) spokeswoman says to the dancing guy dressed up as dollar signs, "Really, go, honey, it's your break!".

Something about the word "honey" in her mouth made me sit up and take notice.  I felt a twinge of light-headedness and realized that, for all my facades of dude-ness, I like it when a woman calls me "Honey".

Or "Sugar". Or "Sweetie".  (sigh)  I'm such a violin.

I know in the current climate of Political Correctness and Gender Distinction Awareness and Avoidance of (possibly) Patronizing Forms of Address Awareness, it can be a slippery slope to use terms of endearment in a public venue and addressed to someone we barely know or do not know at all.  That's why I don't do it with women I do not know, and rarely if ever in a public setting with women I do not know well or only in a professional* sense.  It's best for everyone, that way.  Especially if you ask the legal folks in human resources.

But when I hear it applied to me in a more informal setting (the office is not such a place) like a restaurant or in a store...I usually get that puppy-dog sensation in my gut and I immediately relax a little.  I think its because I grew up in a different climate of male-female relations, one that was further along than most of the neanderthal-ish antics I remember hearing about from my elders (and which have not completely disappeared today), but certainly a little more traditional than today.  That was a time when it was much more common in my experience to hear those terms bandied back and forth and no one, male or female, thought much of it.

As I have evolved, and as things have changed, I realize that we all have to be much more careful about how casual we treat others, especially when affection can too easily be misconstrued for disrespect.  I certainly don't advocate calling colleagues "darlin'" or "honey" (male or female) in business meetings or in places where focus and respect are key to getting things done.

But sometimes?  I don't mind being called "Hon" or "Sugar", especially when I can tell someone is being nice because nice is the normal way to be.

And when it comes from the lips of someone you love?  Well, that's just the cat's meow.

---

*Note:  By 'professional' I mean in a career or workplace-based setting, not in the informal slang of a (ahem) prostitute.  Get your heads out of the gutter.

Cherry Blossom Dream

Memory chamber
Shadows of cherry blossoms
Petals in her hair

Rapt.Sure.

On the morning of the Rapture
I was in the woods, among the birds
with leaves around my ankles

Sunlit pools on the forest floor
through the rose window trees,
from a stained glass sky

In the afternoon of the Rapture
I was working at the lunch table,
counting blessings (sandwich was one)

Cardinal on the feeder shelling seeds
while my hands were making notes,
Shared a knowing glance, then gone

In the evening of the Rapture
At a window seat, with arroz y frijoles,
Her walk a casual flamenco

I could not turn away, eyes like magnets,
I sat up straight and smiled as she neared,
Those mahogany pools smiled back

and said hello, on the evening of the Rapture.

Eos Dream

A brisk wind blew through him as he stood at the prow.  The metallic tang of salt water rushed into lungs breathing deeply of the scent.  Astern, the sky was darkened by storm, drops of silver stippling the water in a mad tattoo.  Forward beyond the bow, the sun was tasting the rippled horizon of a sea the color of wine, as dawn caressed the waves with fingers of rose and peach.  The captain reached out a scarred hand to touch the goddess, as if she knew of his devotion, and he swore he saw her face, wide and smiling, before he jumped into the sea.

Awakening.  A faint sizzle he first took for the sound of bacon frying, or rainfall.  This confused him, as his eyes, though yet unopened, saw a glow of sunlight seeping through the lids.  It was warm, wherever he was, and through the open window came the sun and the faint murmur of waves on a beach.  He felt torpid,  immobile, as if poured into place.  There was a slight stirring of the air, which itself was heavy with the aroma of the sea and feminine musk.  He realized he was naked, with only a swath of nicely scratchy linen draped across his belly and thighs.  The sound of water spilling onto stones came from the adjacent bath, then slowed and stopped.  There was only a faint slow dripping.  He turned his head and opened his eyes.

She was there, in the archway from the bath, running a towel across her hair.  Skin the color of cream and coffee, hair like midnight and a body that made him think art truly was the intersection of Truth and Beauty. Wrapping the towel around her head, she looked up to catch him staring. She smiled.  His heart stopped.  She padded over to the bed to sit beside him, the curve of her hip resting against his belly.  He was acutely aware of the heat seeping into his skin.

Eyes of smoky emerald held his gaze while her left hand held his cheek. He reached up with his right hand, curling it around her wrist. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.  He felt the words drain away.  Her gaze softened.

"What?" she said softly.  His pulse spiked.

"It's...I...had the dream again.  Of you." He spoke in a low, rushed voice.  He blinked quickly, suddenly nervous.  She didn't say anything  for five, then ten heartbeats.  Her fingers never left his cheek.  With languid grace, she leaned over to bring her lips almost even with his, which were trembling slightly.  Her breath zephyring across his chin as she spoke.

"Did you jump?"

He knew that question was coming, but it still caught him off guard.  His answer was so faint as to be nearly inaudible, but he knew she heard.

"Yes".

Her hand slid down from his cheek, down his side and delicately pulled the sheet away.  Her other hand had reached up to pull the towel off from her head.  Midnight fell over his face, she leaned into him, and whispered into his mouth, "Then do it again. Do it again."

His hands fumbled into her hair, drawing her onto him, and he dove headlong into the wine-dark sea.

---

Author's note:  This is my 600th post.  Imagine that.  600 of these things, and I'm still chasing dreams. 

Hymn: Tupelo Heart

It was a sweaty camping trip
I was there, corduroy shorts
She was there, green eyes

Lots of friends, and noise,
I didn't know her
I knew her friend

I opened my mouth,
small miracles, she opened hers
she didn't walk away

To know her lips
was to know sweetness,
tupelo on the tongue

We said I love you
Not knowing what that meant,
Years apart, I still don't know

Stir the honey in the tea,
she whispers in my ear,
and I remember

River on Fire

Far bank quivering from heat-haze,
her profile etched on aureate air
turned to glass from a liquid inferno
flowing unchecked beneath the deck

She turns away, he groans, animal howl,
hands raised to cheeks tortured cheeks,
palms come away filled with fire that
tracks down their bodies, into the water

Tolling hearts become broken bells
and speakers for the dead, who understand
bridges burn but cannot accept tears
setting the river afire that they may not cross

she is my am.eric.an girl

Walking from kitchen to the next room,

the voice of an angel singing softly,

I turned the corner and my heart burst

into crystalline vapor in the Christmas air

North light through the windows, opaline grey,

the flower of my heart stood, singing,

a doll in her arms, held like a sibling

and I managed not to raise hand to heart

A nursery rhyme of unknown origin, cherub smile

to melt glaciers and split stone: I did not gasp

but stood, dumbfounded, to see such grace,

fighting the lump in my throat and tremor in my lips

She holds the doll tenderly, brushes a hair from its cheek

I chew the insides of my cheeks:  Please, my girl

never forget this, never forget such care, such bliss,

someday when you found your own dynasty

She sings, my composure slips its fragile leash,

the room blurs,  I find a space she cannot see,

will not know my heart has shattered, instantly,

refired in the kiln of her innocence

Dabbing at liquid eyes, towel between clenched teeth,

I hear her say "You are so pretty, the doll I always wanted"

knees near to buckling, overwhelmed by beauty:

I resolve to live forever.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have to say, the above prose poem (is that a phrase?) is not yet the piece I wanted to write.  It is crude, unrefined, compared to that which was in my head and inspired me to write.  I want to try it again.  Writing it over might do it justice.  Then again. it might not.  This is the dilemma.  It is almost a certainty that there are no words, no matter how skilfully arranged, that could do justice to what I saw Christmas morning.  I am also glad I had no camera with me at the time; to stop and photograph that angelic countenance, in such a golden moment, seems to me to border on a minor blasphemy.  The look on her face, the softness of her voice as she sang...

If I could truly describe, dear readers, the glimpse of the divine that I was granted I think you would agree that words sometimes fall far short.  I am reminded of "High Flight",  a poem by John Gillespie Magee, Jr., the last line of which reads:

"...Put out my hand, and touched the face of God."

That poem is about a brush with the Divine in an entirely different setting, but it comes very close to what I mean.  Perhaps that is the essence of all genuinely moving experiences in life.  Words can bring us right to the edge, but in the end, we stand mute before Beauty.

Winter Poetry Slam: Patuxent River Meditation #6

Green scent of pine boughs,
Motley lights cradled, sparkling,
waiting for her love

Winter Poetry Slam: Patuxent River Meditation #4

Stiff leaves kiss my feet,
water caressing stones, shh!
a voice I once knew

Music Lesson

Oh, Lou- I'd like to let you know that I do not feel welcome.
All the birds, the trees, the falling snow
No they were not made for me.
And all this is where her heart resides; we met in California
She saw cities, promise reaching through my eyes
And she turned her self away

With the weather here being cold and wet, and conducive to keenly felt melancholy, I was all set to park myself at the keyboard this night and bang out a finely crafted paean to being adrift.  I made one mistake.  I listened to the song that produced the above lyrics.  The title is "That Western Skyline" by Dawes.  It a great song and a master class in rich, deep storytelling.  Yet they do it with an economy of means that leaves me astounded.  Like 'jaw-on-the-ground' astounded.  No, no, make that 'head-on-the-table' astounded.  This song had me in tears, face in my hands, because it was so heart-breakingly beautiful.

All because of one simple lyric.

Well how I curse that western skyline.
And yet I thanked it for my start.
Oh Lou, no my dreams did not come true; no they only came apart.

Oh, lawd...one line, twelve ordinary words...but what a punch.  How is this possible?  What is it they are channeling?  I have on occasion produced some powerful and provocative sentences (or at least I hope I have!), usually with bigger or more numerous words.  Yet I think I have only scratched the surface where Dawes has sunk a whole damn mineshaft into the broken heart.

The song revolves around that pithy gem.  The rest of the story speaks to leaving some important things behind in search of love, maybe home or even the 'who' a person used to be, only to find that love unrequited.  It is truly a hell of a thing to go that far out on a limb, only to discover it has been sawed off behind you.

So I followed her here to Birmingham, where the soil is so much richer

And though my aching pride might guide my hand, she did not ask for me to come.

So I wait for her all through the day, as if I wait for her surrender.

And every time I get her to look my way, she says I'm not where I belong.

But I watch her father preach on Sundays.

I know the hymnals all by heart.

But oh, Lou, no my dreams did not come true; no they only came apart.

I listened to the song three times in a row.  I could not tear myself away from it.

So I hope you understand that I could not bring myself to write the story I was going to write.  Not after that, no.  I reckon it will have to wait for another day, when the weather is better and I'm not sitting at the dining table and staring at the Christmas lights that illuminate my empty living room.  I need to meditate on stitching dreams back together, and that may take a while.

Listen and learn:

The Usefulness of the Void

Little green bowl
unassuming plastic, and cheap
yet what treasure it holds

It holds? No, no, not quite.
What holds it, is the treasure
of her small, perfect hands

At breakfast she laughs
that little girl laugh
while I gasp for breath

Those perfect hands on the bowl
scooping cheerios, applesauce,
and holding my heart, still.

Trying Not To Seem Weird

Across the way, in the bar
she sat there under his gaze
moth in the lamplight
while he sat and didn't stare

he muttered to himself
turned away in the nick of time
always looking over to see
if she had seen

her phone rang, she left her chair
Walking past, mere inches away
while he froze in the glare
of a woolen skirt that fit

His eyes turned to follow
hips like a magnet
pulling at his eyes, until
she looked up

and he swallowed his tongue

A Gringo in America

Bonus night at the burrito joint, thought Colin McInerney as he stood in line for a weekly installment of frijoles and carnitas, Not one but two, count 'em, dos, ponytails workin' the line.  Rosa and Carmelita, the Burrito Sisters.

He fingered the worn bills in his pocket.  It was a nervous habit, exacerbated by the butterflies making lazy loops in his belly.  That he was nervous just made him flustered, and he could tell by the heat there was a flush creeping up his neck and over his face.  The ears in particular felt hot, like fleshy heat sinks riveted to his head.  Colin blinked rapidly from the effort of trying to appear calm.  The effort was tremendous, that of trying to catch glimpses of the pretty ladies behind the counter without being caught in the attempt.

There were gaps in the line of people, odd voids shaped by the heads and shoulders of the other customers standing alongside one another.  Colin was using them as a sort of hedgerow in which he could hide and see without being seen.  He hoped.  Every so often one would look his way.  It took all his concentration to avoid flinching, like he had been hit by rubber bullets from an invisible riot gun.  Still, anyone close would have seen the jerks and twitches, the rapid side-to-side motion of Colin's head, and would probably be wondering what sort of nervous affliction he was carrying.

The line moved forward.  Colin was next up to the counter.  The Captain of the Comal, as Colin had dubbed the man working the griddle, was a friendly sort.  "Colin, amigo! Good to see you!" called the Captain; Colin liked it because it made him think of what Cheers would have been like if it had been set in a cantina, and Norm walked through the door.  On another level, Colin thought it was a nice touch considering just how many of his weekly calories came from this place.  Of course, the Captain was the only person he had the nerve to actually talk to on his many visits.

"Hey, Captain, que pasa!  Gimme the usual, please."  The Captain slapped a tortilla on the griddle and closed the lid.  "This time, add a double scoop of the frijoles, please".

Out of the corner of his eye, Colin had seen the first counter woman, the one he called Rosa (the cashier lady he called Carmelita, although he had no idea why; they didn't wear name tags and if had heard someone call her name he hadn't really been paying attention), glance over at him when the Captain had called his name.

"She knows I'm here, at least.  Probably knows I've been staring," Colin muttered to himself, suddenly feeling warmer as the Captain ladled the beans and meat onto the tortilla and slid it down the counter over to Rosa.  He gulped.  He was next, and he would have to look her in the eye.

He inched down the glass to look up into a pair of the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen,  perfectly sized roundels of mahogany-colored stained glass.  She was smiling at him in that way peculiar to the front lines of fast-food joints everywhere: friendly, perhaps, but not overly so and looking a bit clip-on.

He didn't care.  She was talking to him.  Brown eyes, ponytail and corporate polo shirt just so, and Colin hoped he could get the toppings without sounding like what he was: a dork with a crush.  Her eyes seemed to get bigger as he stared at her.  Her lips, that lovely smile, began to part and Colin knew what was going to happen next.  She was going to ask him what he wanted on his burrito.  He gulped.  She spoke.

"What would you like on it?" she said, in English tinged with the hues of Mexico.  Colin blinked, once, twice.  His mouth opened. 

"What would I like? You, of course.  Just you.  Come out from behind the counter, right now, and let me kiss you on the mouth, twine my fingers in that ponytail.  Rosa.  Is that your name?  Not that it matters.  Your name could be anything and I would love it.  Just like you.  Love you, that is.  Am I being too forward?  I hope not, I hope I'm not bothering you, because really, I am in love with you.  Just like that.  I come in here every week and you, well, you are one of the reasons I do that.  Because its stupid and silly and I can't help myself.  So please? Let's leave here and get married and live somewhere where its warm in the winter and we can sleep with the windows open. Please?"

Colin blinked again, suddenly realizing his jaw was hanging slack.  Oh, shit, did I say all that out loud? he wondered. There was a rustle of impatience in the line behind.  Rosa was staring at him, half-bored and half-annoyed.

"Sir?  What you like on your burrito?" she repeated.

"Uh, the mild salsa, lettuce, cheese and guac, please," he squeaked.  His neck flushed hotter and he wondered if anyone could see him glowing.  Rosa swiftly added the toppings and rushed the burrito over to the counter.  Colin looked away, embarrassed, but felt a little relieved that she had already turned her attention to the next customer.  He pulled the bills from his pocket to pay.  A fine tanned hand at the end of a fine tanned arm put his meal on a tray and slid it across the counter.  Colin froze momentarily, then jerked a little at the voice.

"Any chips and salsa with that? A drink?"  Carmelita asked, a feminine bell calling the faithful to prayer.  Colin looked up across the counter...and into a pair of the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen,  perfectly sized roundels of emerald-colored stained glass, and a ponytail the color of ravens.  She was smiling.

Oh, lord, groaned Colin inwardly, here we go again...

"What would I like? You, of course.  Just you..."

Heartcatcher

Being a tough guy is overrated.

I don't mean tough in an obnoxious hard ass way.  I mean that implicit toughness that allows us average XY types to go about our daily business sans freak outs and breakdowns.  Toughness that is a mask we wear to role play and get our jobs done.

Wait...I said jobs...I don't have a job.  What do you say to that? Hmmph.

See?  Toughness.  It's what has made it possible for me to survive the heartbreaks, tragedies and setbacks I've undergone in the past seven years.  True, there were plenty of times where I felt myself cracking.  There were plenty of times where I was on the bed or in the shower bawling my eyes out.  Those episodes were demoralizing and cathartic.  In the aftermath I always felt ashamed to be so out of control, and relieved that I could get it out of my system.

Purging myself in that fashion made it possible for me to keep up the toughness when I really needed it.  The facade could be maintained when I had business to conduct, or even while doing simple things such as shopping for groceries.  Lately, being tough has kept me going at least at minimum speed.  The engine ticks over with just enough impetus for me to keep up the job search, think through new pathways my life may take, and to be in the present with my Wee Lass.

Being tough has a price.  It takes energy.  It takes dedication.  It takes resolve.  Three things in short supply in this, my third month of being 'between employments'.  I can't always keep the mask on, and if there is a saving grace to being out of work, it is that I have plenty of alone time to let the mask slip.

This does not equate with feeling good about it.  It is a stupefying blend of that low morale and catharsis I alluded to earlier.  An unpleasant but necessary thing, I guess.

Another facet to this toughness, is that it isn't always a bad thing that tears off the mask.  I find that beauty will often have the same effect, especially beauty as manifested by Love.  I was reminded of this tonight as I tucked in my daughter at her bed time, a simple act which nearly brought me to my knees.

I indulged her tonight, letting her play computer games for a bit longer than usual.  I noticed her starting to slump a little, apple cheek on delicate hand, with a few yawns.  She shut down the games unprompted, looked at me and said "I'm pooped."  We shared a chuckle, and because she had earlier done her bedtime ablutions, we picked two books to read before turning in.

She was sleepy, so the usual bedtime shenanigans ("IwantwaterWhere'smystuffedanimalsTurnethpillowoverDaddy!") were limited in scope.  She snuggled into her pillows with her face toward me.  The bedside light had a soft glow on her face as I brushed the hair back from her eyes.

Sitting there at the edge of her bed, I brushed back the last strand of her hair and in the light I could see a faint spray of small freckles on her cheeks and dusting the bridge of her nose.  She didn't look angelic or otherworldly; that would have been cliche. What she looked, though, was simply beautiful.  Beautiful in an honest, open way that made my heart catch in my chest.  Beautiful in the way a sunset can look, or morning light refracting through the crest of a wave.

Beauty to bring a tough guy to his knees.

Faint and dizzy, I rested my hand on her cheek, sitting quietly until I could catch my breath.  The mask cracked a little, tectonic plates slipping past one another in my heart.  I leaned in to say goodnight and "I love you, sweetpea" to which she murmured sleepily "I love you, too, daddy."

In that instant, as it always happens, I felt weak and invincible simultaneously.  Hearing words like that enables me to take off the mask, set aside the armor, and rest.  It enables me to feel human, and blessed that I had anything at all to do with creating such beauty.  Blessed, indeed, that such beauty loves me in return.

Arctic Summer

Every morning at drop-off
those rose window eyes turn
to his, he falls to the floor
in front of the altar

Every morning the angel says
"I love you" in a silver-spun whisper
he barely hears sometimes
because the sun has just risen in his face

Every morning he says "I love you, too"
through throat tight with tears on a leash
knowing awareness for precious moments
mayfly in a hyperborean landscape

Every morning, walking out the door
chill descending on his heart
he prays the sun will rise again
bathing him in the gold of an arctic summer

It Isn't Your Face They Want to Poke, and Do You Really Want That?

Last Tuesday, I had the pleasure of  reading a great post on Dadcentric by the ever-cheeky Kevin at Always Home and Uncool*, a post on the curious phenomenon that is Lady Gaga. While I had heard of the Lady, I had never really been curious enough to check out the music. Or maybe it was that I was just too tired and busy. But after reading Always Home's (linked above) that led to the Gaga post, a gem unto itself, I had to satisfy my scientific curiosity** and check it out.

Sigh. Would that I am not so curious. "Poker Face"? Really? Oh good lord. I wouldn't say this was appalling but I had a hard time figuring out why gaga over Gaga. I'm sure she has a decent voice, and yeah there was some interesting theatrics (especially in the 'Polka Face' video)...but not much that I haven't seen before, and that maybe has been done better by others (see Tina Turner or even Madonna a la' Material Girl). I can only imagine who might be the Next Big Thang by the time my Wee Lass gets interested in tween music. In the meantime, I'll keep playing my Clash and Gogol Bordello, and getting her to sing along with me.

Ida know, maybe I'm jaded. Or tired of all the in-your-face approaches to "hotness". Maybe when I was in high school or even in college, that kind of blunt come-on was a lot more attractive. I suppose having the benefit of overcharged hormones and seemingly boundless energy would make a difference.

More likely, having no appreciation for subtlety, elegance or finesse makes the biggest difference. And when I was a younger Gumbo, those three words were rarely heard or seen in my vocabulary***. While I was watching the Poker Face (horrible title, by the way. Extends a red carpet to parody.) video, I realized that for all the bump and grind, and supposedly being "out there" or cutting edge or whatever...subtlety, elegance and finesse had fled the country. I was more bemused than attracted. Why?

"Bluffin' with my muffin" - seriously? You expect me to be attracted to that? I had the image of a big dish of honey sitting out on the porch, with no screen, and a big sign saying "GETYERHONEYNOWDAMMIT". Sorry, but doing that attracts too many flies...

The counterpoint to all this was what I have been listening to on the trusty iPod. I have a collection of the best of Billie Holiday, and no doubt she can sannng...but the real deal here, the song That Makes All The Difference, that tells you all you need to know about seduction, my friends...

"At Last" by the lovely Etta James. Oh, yes, dear readers, it's time to go to school...

 You see what I mean? Does she get all up in your grill? Use unoriginal euphemisms for the naughty bits? Of course not. She does a masterful job of interpreting the "Show, don't tell" axiom of good storytelling. Honestly, if I can said to swoon at anything, it is this song. Mmm, mmm...sing, Etta, sing...

...you other ladies****, lovely and talented as you may be, have some learning to do.

*Which I found through a link courtesy the radiant and lovely Everyday Goddess. Go, visit, pay homage. She will bless you. Or at least make you laugh.

**Plus I was suffering from post-work ennui. Ennui: a fancy-schmancy word for pathologically bored.

***Sometimes they still are, I am afraid. The difference is that I am much more aware of those qualities in others, even if I have trouble expressing them myself. I know what I was missing when I was young and dumb...and I'm not going back.
****In fairness, Beyonce does a credible turn with this song. Plus she looks damn fine in that gold dress. Sigh. Immune I am not.

She Knows Not What She Holds

A bear to her, perhaps...but I can feel those hands around my heart.

Corona Borealis, My Heart

Hers is a mind that knows nothing of spreadsheets and billables and contracts. As I stood there watching corn silk hair waft about in the wind, I told myself this is as it should be.

A mind like the second coming of the Hope Diamond, sharp, brilliant and captivating. Me, I felt dull and lifeless next to her. Picture a comet on the outbound swing of its trajectory. Time and distance pile up and the sphere of ice and rock grows colder and dimmer, the glory of its tail fading into the intergalactic black. The comet is servant to gravity, and the sun doesn’t know its own strength. It gazes upon those who orbit with the wonder of a child, fascinated and reaching out with invisible arms to pull them in.

Just like me, that sunny fall day in a small patch of pumpkins. She carries her treasure, confident it is the finest in the field, and I cannot refute her claim. The sun clutches the orangey globe, a solar presence writ in miniature.

The wind kicks up, hay and leaves awhirl around the shining brow of my queen. She turns to me with that megawatt smile, her eyes wide open and gazing at me. My heart leaps, the Universe unfolds around me as her gravity pulls me in. I dive headfirst into an azure sky studded with diamonds. She laughs as a crown of light rises from her brow, into the blue…

…My God, she’s full of stars…