(Love is) a Gift

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Like a rock-cave shelter
cOld, unyielding, refusing to
moVe. yet,
envEloping, sturdy, protective and warmed by the fire inside.

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This poem is part of the WordPress “Writing 201” Blogging U.
(Day 2) Today’s topic, form and device are: Gift, Acrostic and Simile.

Hell, Why Not?

         A man from my past has surfaced recently.
He is trying to talk me into a casual encounter of an intimate nature.

(If text is invisible, story should be available on the post page at the Vagarious Voyage blog. Sorry for the inconvenience, but thank you for subscribing!)

            Let’s be honest. I’m at least half-tempted.

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            Already, I can feel how he wraps his arms low around my waist and looks at me like maybe I hold a magic key to happiness and maybe I’m holding that key between my tightly pressed lips, while he waits for me to relax and ease into him.

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            I told him it would be too risky.
He might fall in love with me.

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            He told me that the risk of falling is mine, and I replied,
it might be true.

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            It probably is true. The risk of falling – it belongs to me.

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            In the immediate,
I crave our connection.
I crave the heat we share and the strength of two souls wrapped together,
instead of only my solo one.

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BUT

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            It’s the
after.

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            He will leave. He always does.

He will disappear. He can’t help it.

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The distance will stretch out and the loneliness will grow and that same strength of two souls will dissolve –  even to less than one – while I wait for equilibrium, bouncing around inside of me like moths near a porch light, before it returns.

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That little bubble of love that I have for him will settle into my ribcage.
Along with the other little bubbles of love that reside there.
And in those beginning days of the
after, the bubbles will all be so, so heavy.

So. Heavy.

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Maybe it will only take a few days for the bubbles to become soapy and floaty as they rise up into my chest full of rainbow reflections.

Or maybe it will take many days.

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Despite the temptation, I’ll have to refuse him…
the heavy part of
after
 grows – it will take many, many days.


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Sculptor

I am the clay. Your fingers relay desire into my imperfections,
surveying   the   lines   and   curves  and  rhythms   and   decay.
Sculpting    away    my    insecurities,   you   colorize   the  grey.

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*Daily Post*

*Fingers, Prose, Assonance*