I awoke with a lengthy shuddering yawn. The last thing that I need at this moment is to be awake, but my circadian clock is still suffering from the after-effects of working the other nine to five. It has manifested itself in other ways, but the lack of sleep is the worst. I mutter to myself with an edge of resent that i am arguably more exhausted now than when I retired a handful of hours ago.
Perhaps it is just as well that the day is still hours away, because I could not face it. We were forced to close the bar a little after 7.30 on Saturday night after the death - on the job - of one of our bouncers. He just keeled over from a massive heart attack. I have already decided not to attend the funeral.
With a heavy exhalation I fold the turquoise sheets to my hip and stifle the second yawn. I sit up in bed and pull open the blinds before crashing back into the pillow. I had the distinct sensation for a moment that you were here beside me. Alas. The disappointment that you are not takes a moment to dispel. What I would give to be able to brush at your shoulder have you ...
The momentary indulgence floats through my mind like the wisps of cloud that steadily push west over the mulberry tree. The sky is that wondrous shade of French pearly grey that only first light can bring. The sun will join me in consciousness soon. A handful of distant suns linger still, scintillating (yup that's the correct technical term). Some song lyrics come to mind before my thoughts meander their way back to you. It is currently a little after one o'clock yesterday afternoon at your house, and I am a-bed a-thinkin'. Are you at school or work. No, you're usually at work about four. Is today your single day of respite? Do Mr and Mrs Franklin and their brood of identical octuplets enjoy their new residence, or have they been forced to move out?
I laugh mirthlessly to myself. I have desired clarity to my thoughts for so long, and at last I have it, thinking of you. But thinking of you comes at a price. I have been thinking of you quite a lot recently, losing myself in thoughts of you by way of an escape. Perhaps, ironically, it is why I have felt so harried of late. So many thoughts across a myriad of subjects and there is never enough time to devote as much as each deserves. No, with all of the crazy goings-on here, it's a welcome distraction.
-----------------------
I’m dreaming. I must be, because you are here.
The dress that hangs from your delicate frame is the same scarlet number as the one you wore to our party at St Andrew’s Place. “Memories” of that night fill my mind as I rise from the bed, fully dressed. Nothing terribly fancy, just dress trousers with my white shirt, the one with the sable and dun pinstripes, and I am sans tie. Drawing myself to my full height, you offer me a hand, which I accept. You guide it onto your hip as we knit finger-gaps.
Can you feel my nervousness? But I know everything’s gonna be OK. You’re here. Your gaze slices through me as your lips twist into a smile that suggests sadness. The bedroom disintegrates and the carpet morphs into a parquetry floor. We’re alone, though the evidence points to a party only a matter of hours ago. No eyes watching us but our own. No sound but the gentle, luxurious melody of Coltrane. You’re pressed so close against me that I can feel you tremble with your heartbeat. Your chin rests upon my shoulder.
Frenzy and delight have yielded to serenity. Our cheeks brush as you slightly pull yourself from me. I know what it is you want, because the same urge swells in me, and you are much closer than you have been in a long time. But I cannot kiss you. It is not because of a lack of desire. It is fear. Will your lips be as nebulous as the words that pass over them? Kiss me with desire, not consolation.
There is more to tell here, but I think they might be words for you alone. The dream dissolves with my 7.10 am alarm. You’ll be at work now. I wonder if you’ve thought of me at all today.
I’ll be thinking of you incessantly this week, given the events to occur later. There will be fireworks, though not in your honour. And I will wish for you again.
Happy Birthday babe. I'll leave a note for you in the garden later in the week.
Not drafted completely, but sentiment is there.
Perhaps it is just as well that the day is still hours away, because I could not face it. We were forced to close the bar a little after 7.30 on Saturday night after the death - on the job - of one of our bouncers. He just keeled over from a massive heart attack. I have already decided not to attend the funeral.
With a heavy exhalation I fold the turquoise sheets to my hip and stifle the second yawn. I sit up in bed and pull open the blinds before crashing back into the pillow. I had the distinct sensation for a moment that you were here beside me. Alas. The disappointment that you are not takes a moment to dispel. What I would give to be able to brush at your shoulder have you ...
The momentary indulgence floats through my mind like the wisps of cloud that steadily push west over the mulberry tree. The sky is that wondrous shade of French pearly grey that only first light can bring. The sun will join me in consciousness soon. A handful of distant suns linger still, scintillating (yup that's the correct technical term). Some song lyrics come to mind before my thoughts meander their way back to you. It is currently a little after one o'clock yesterday afternoon at your house, and I am a-bed a-thinkin'. Are you at school or work. No, you're usually at work about four. Is today your single day of respite? Do Mr and Mrs Franklin and their brood of identical octuplets enjoy their new residence, or have they been forced to move out?
I laugh mirthlessly to myself. I have desired clarity to my thoughts for so long, and at last I have it, thinking of you. But thinking of you comes at a price. I have been thinking of you quite a lot recently, losing myself in thoughts of you by way of an escape. Perhaps, ironically, it is why I have felt so harried of late. So many thoughts across a myriad of subjects and there is never enough time to devote as much as each deserves. No, with all of the crazy goings-on here, it's a welcome distraction.
-----------------------
I’m dreaming. I must be, because you are here.
The dress that hangs from your delicate frame is the same scarlet number as the one you wore to our party at St Andrew’s Place. “Memories” of that night fill my mind as I rise from the bed, fully dressed. Nothing terribly fancy, just dress trousers with my white shirt, the one with the sable and dun pinstripes, and I am sans tie. Drawing myself to my full height, you offer me a hand, which I accept. You guide it onto your hip as we knit finger-gaps.
Can you feel my nervousness? But I know everything’s gonna be OK. You’re here. Your gaze slices through me as your lips twist into a smile that suggests sadness. The bedroom disintegrates and the carpet morphs into a parquetry floor. We’re alone, though the evidence points to a party only a matter of hours ago. No eyes watching us but our own. No sound but the gentle, luxurious melody of Coltrane. You’re pressed so close against me that I can feel you tremble with your heartbeat. Your chin rests upon my shoulder.
Frenzy and delight have yielded to serenity. Our cheeks brush as you slightly pull yourself from me. I know what it is you want, because the same urge swells in me, and you are much closer than you have been in a long time. But I cannot kiss you. It is not because of a lack of desire. It is fear. Will your lips be as nebulous as the words that pass over them? Kiss me with desire, not consolation.
There is more to tell here, but I think they might be words for you alone. The dream dissolves with my 7.10 am alarm. You’ll be at work now. I wonder if you’ve thought of me at all today.
I’ll be thinking of you incessantly this week, given the events to occur later. There will be fireworks, though not in your honour. And I will wish for you again.
Happy Birthday babe. I'll leave a note for you in the garden later in the week.
Not drafted completely, but sentiment is there.