Dream Girl

I cannot help but to wonder where she might be tonight.

And I find myself caught hard in the tantalizingly elusive possibility of her very tentative existence.

The underlying solitude of a disjointed former lover’s isolation gives birth to that unstable potential for a dream.

The empty incompleteness leaves me questioning the fleetingly unique set of circumstances required to even begin finding her.

The silence resounding unabated inside a shallow and echoing blue house causes me to ponder the curvatures of the flowing currents of happenstance, wondering which twirl of the unrelenting flood will ultimately land me safely on her safe shores of lasting acceptance.

If she were here with me now, in this particular early evening hour, I would dance with her.  Unashamedly.  Our bodies intertwined amongst the changing songs and the smoke, as outside the streaked and hazy glass of the open windows the City of Wayne burns bright in the background, the flames flickering and reflecting back amongst the darkness of a decaying midwestern soul.

Perhaps we would sway in gentle lover’s time to the soft sounds of an intimate and tender song, sharing openly with her my musical choices in place of the words that I am still too afraid to actually say out loud.

Maybe we would instead gyrate and twist to something more abrasive and raw.  Spinning and bending.  Thumping and pumping.  Pushing our way to touch the explored energy of a flourishing attraction exposed.  Whirling and twirling ourselves round and round until the sweat trickles down our flushed and reddened faces, soaking the ridiculousness of a moment caught nostalgically in yet another song.

I want to make constant love to her within the earnest, passionate confines of our conversations.

I crave the soothing honesty of her uninhibited, genuinely sympathetic touch.

I hunger for her unflinching intellect, pushing my boundaries right along with hers, stimulating my interest with her coy wordplay designed to make me a better man.

And a better writer.

I can hear her.

If I close my eyes tight, and shut out the world screaming and dying all around me, I can smell the scent of her perfume.

My heart is here; but she remains noticeably absent.

And I don’t know how much longer I can bear that inconsistency.

 

About Grey Fox

...author, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

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