They've loved me.
Once again after a lengthy and gushing nourishment of his body and mind, I return to this mask of myself — sunken eyes, droopy cheeks, and a hollowness that overwhelms the spirit.
The insomnia of separation from a man’s thunder. When his shoulder hooks my head, and tweaks my worries like soft bread, the mind that directs me when I am driving directionless, and maps my journey, and to walk beside me, a guardian of my fragility, and the voice that encourages me, and applauds my success, rather than let it drip from jealously or preoccupation. How the laughter erupts in a moment of spontaneous passion. My observation of his secret revealed, unknowingly.
The gestures of him shaving, and the modest vanity after I re-wardrobe him.
Feeling his eyes in a crowd, undressing or admiring me, for some folly or expression.
The humor he finds in my misguided attempts to open bottles, and packages with a dull spoon, and figure out electronics.
How he will pardon and pamper my unwarranted fears of stalkers, misplacing my Progressive Prada glasses, and falling down the slippery wooden stairs.
The man whose balance evens my wrinkles.
Lets the light into my eyes.
Opens my shell with wonder and tenderness.
Why I write this is because the danger of reversing the purest form of love, is tempting me. This dragon argues with me for dressing up, for singing in the shower, and waving at neighbors, for whistling winds of change, hope, and all those iridescent rainbows I lived with John, and now are like submarine weights to lift each day.
It’s like taking down the Christmas ornaments and returning to the blemishes of winter.
Yes, the dragon sees me in the mirror, and maybe you, but we cannot allow her to trample over our feminine skin.