I don’t know if I want to give this up to the lost spirits of writing, but it’s thinking itself through, it’s working’ itself out, and the heat it reckons to be called out.
He told a lullaby kind of story that night… in the past-decency hours, in the wake of wine and wanderings across cities not connected. But this dazzling story… it seeped past the hardened wolf tales of my Book Of Historical warnings… it left a haze upon itself, and my mind, that travelled the conversation. Travelled to the isles, the mystical, the great oracles of the other side of the moon. (It was the moon!) It left behind my tired feminist strongholds, (hah), and on into the real insides of religion. The seeing, and the knowing, and the let it cascade, feels… my practicing past with mythology and tastes.
And what of feeling? What of the words could fill this telling to reality’s reflection, I’ll never quite have those. Mind yes, and touch maybe, only, can tell what you know you remember…though it’s fading fast into archival glories.
Can try to be, try to record it; the rising to mountain heights - the unleashed passion of your magical side. I can tell you instead of where imagination meets anew, ahh, “where” can be wherever you do desire. Cause you build desire, it doesn’t hit, you build upon being a woman, a storm, a surprise at every, sweet, meeting.
Damn, that’s not it either.
Let me try again. Try to say of the power of slow, in a half-asleep haze of after lullabies start it all… arching, ever slowly, your back, up off the sheets. The voice ever lower into whisper, the promises ever detailed. And you rise and quicken to bliss, but the listening — the sounds of creation — in a soft dark room with him changing and falling. Me falling and sliding down into it. Till the very floor fell into wine dreams.
Maybe that’s close.
... So goodnight to you friends.
. . .
