Demure Confusion

I thought that one day my world would exploded in a stream of gliding white butterflies and white tullips. I hoped that my powder blue vision would blur to a shimmering pink. I haven't seen it yet. My sight has not been introduced to pink or golds. Okay, so I did not see those colors yet I  did feel their warmth once. A fluttering pink sparkle and delicate gold dust moved over my skin like a wave of licking jeweled colored flames. Try tossing a hand full of borax into a fire and it's green. A light pale green like leaves blushing before spring, That is how I felt with after a film with my"former other" on evening. The San Francisco  street was sleepy as most of the movie goers were still locked away in the theater wrestling with scarves and coats. We were not. We snuck out soon as the screen the credits roles. Down the iron fire escape into the nip of January's chill. He was off to his car and I to my cab. The fog had already roled in, the buzz our cocktail had faded leaving us in the stark surrender of mystery. Do I still have feelings? Can I love someone?

The cab pulled up. We faced eachother, and hugged. Our arms wrapped aroud one another meekly and we kissed. I tasted his words. I peeked inside in his soul and found that hope was not just on my lips, it was on his. His thoughts were sugared in a demure confusion. A confusion that was flickering in pale flames of green. Green like leaves blushing. Who knows but on that night we had a hope. And within that minor little minute, I spun. The kiss was merely two lips touching, but I tasted something green, green for growth, and green for hope. 

Hope is beautiful but you can't cultivate it like love. It is not a manicured garden filled purple perennials. Love germinates in souls, wild flowers. It's instinctual, fantastical, and nonsensical. It can can flood a heart in a flash or steal someones breath in heady perfume.

I remembered that today after my phone rang, it was him. My hand shook, spilling the rose wine on the floor, I never mentioned that I had spilled something. My lips were closed silently mumbling, "Do I still have feelings? Can I love someone again?" 

Song: Virginia Astley-Second Chance

Feral Cats and Lavender

"Dreary, dreary," said the morose catapillar before hearing the wind on butterfly wings.

The moments are building I know. The times are changing. I wish I could change too. Change into vapor, and ride on the chilly March winds towards the bay. Everything will happen, everything will unfold. I won't leap into the future blindly. I will not jump into a frying pan. I see myself winging it over the unrelaible Northern California sunshine. 

Funny, how different I feel when I'm there.  I breath. I fan the flames of my complications and quirks openly. Without care for offense or disapproval of family or perception of friends who have a strong definition of who I am. They're views of me are correctto an extent. We all project a fascade, right?

Presently, I feel there are very few who know the actual me. There are a few. But isnt that a typical statement that most people would say? I have to answer yes. Out of the hundreds of thousands of billions can one person say they know someone entirely. We all have secrets.

Secrets so dark that not even a torch could not illuminate them. I don't find the darkness bad in the sense that it is evil. People since the dawning of time have stated anything remotley dark was bad like skin, and hair color. If there was no darkness, how could one determine how beautiful a falling star was? Or without the night, how could we listen to a lullaby dreaming in the whispery moonlight?  Impossible I say,  so tonight from my window I will watch the trees bend heavy with rain and listen to the feral cats hiding underneath my lavender for cover in the dark and dream.

Music- Marie Laforet: Modinha