Nights of white satin
“This fell not far from us,” she said in a trembling voice.
Her companion replied, not just to reassure her, “That’s true, but now we know where it came from!”
And so it is with most human actions, there is always a return, sometimes with even more fume…
Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.
I just dreamed about it, we were there, and on the first morning we walked in the park nearby. It’s exactly as we imagined – or remembered – a cool island in the middle of the city, early joggers, people taking in the fresh air, reading on benches, discussing their plan for the day with friends.
And then there is the cascade, and the god at the bottom, near the usually busy street. We walked past it, followed the avenue, at that time of the morning there was yet little traffic. We came back through the quiet street that leads to the “quartier”, and took the stairs.
When I woke up, you were still asleep. I was in a different city, an hour behind the one I’d just left. It was time to make coffee, and look again at the floor plan. We will get there won’t we?
Image: Neptune, Viktoria Park, Berlin Kreuzberg, © Honoré Dupuis
She crouched behind a short spiky bush, and waited for a sound. There was none, not even the usual discrete footfall of small creatures in the dark. A hawk could be seen, circling silently around the dark silhouette of the tower.
“So,”she thought,”This is where you died, so long ago even the stones have forgotten your name, the colour of your hair, the strength of your arms…” She relaxed her grip on the sword: there was no-one there, perhaps not even the spirit of the hero, who, in eons past, had died defending her ancestors, in this forsaken and deserted place, alone against multitudes of demons.
But she had to find out. Cautiously she started moving toward the ruin, one step at a time, a fluid and silent motion that only supernatural eyes could have observed.
Yet she sensed some presence, somewhere, closer to the tower, cloaked in darkness. Now she heard the voice of an owl hunting.
Grey skies, westerly winds, crowds in the malls,
Sometime a new life: as Spring will come
Blowing away the fogs of the past year…
Image: Edouard Boubat – Jardin du Luxembourg, Paris, 1952, via http://oldalbum.tumblr.com
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Secret Admirers.”
I do not need a sign,
I know where this came from
and it is charming, unexpected, seductive…
But there is no time left,
even for us,
to reflect on the living
when we, both, have long gone.
Image: Ruth Bernhard – Female Nude with Crossed Arms
She knows the power of words
I will never know if you remember, wherever you are now. It was already autumn, and the chill in the air reminded us that soon the cold winds would sweep through the plains and our city.
We stopped the car, I wanted to take a picture of you: I wanted to stop the clock, capture this second of eternity, your smile, the nice clothes you decided to wear on our special day…
In truth I should not be here to tell the tale, but this is what happened:
We kissed, a long, passionate kiss, I remember losing myself in that kiss, and I could hear my heart – or was it yours? Wherever you are now, you surely remember that feeling.
For soon I felt the pain, my skin being cut, so lightly, those sharp incisive, your beautiful white incisive…
Thus I became who I am now, and you are gone.
