I blew a sigh in the direction I knew a kiss would follow from my own mouth, decorated in the red from another pair of lips. Her grace and simple smile. It was a memory I grew for, to a future I was terrified would sprout to multiple, curious directions, because what is certain?
I was in this same room, as I stand within it, now. I notice the keeping of a certain bed, with its headboard and sheets. I notice how a certain detail, being those sheets, move with a flapping motion, in response to a wind that intrudes in, from an open window. What I also have witnessed, upon my mind in the heat of memories, is the spot to where I see what was once many nights in passion.
Still an area entrenched, as though a hole to be dug out from a bed of soil, made as a impression in the worn mattress.
Now the keepers are tending to it, like an artifact from history. They know not of the history that encases itself upon the shelves, in my mind. Would they ever be intrigued, such maids with their brooms and other sweepers? I am eager to know, but not so eager to jump into the seduction of one such maid, for the torment would wring me, not entice me.
Is love ever-so simple as the poets claim? It is, because it is life that becomes the villain for love.
We will forever name God to be non-existent when we are alive, as victims in love, and never Him, a being of no life.
I see such a memory before myself, when I have noticed that the curtain to the open window has been blown slightly further, than usual. I have envisioned my beauty as she used to be, before me, in the central part of this room. During when seduction was a passion to her person, she waves loose clothing about herself, as though she guided the wind to make it move. Like a dancer of flamenco, women with their loose garbs, as well, guiding them to draw faces of no more than smiles, upon observers to what a scene they create; and, she did the same, with her eyes upon me in the corner of her vision, and then upon the dress in her hands.
A train to trail another path before itself. She, too, smiled with all the dashes that could make up such resplendent beauty. I was in love with a woman of elegance, by whatever that word represents.
I denied nothing in the mood offered, when her right hand touched my chin, and spoke the words aloud, “There is nothing so wonderful as your presence, before me, in this room of rooms, while we shall share in our grand seduction.”
I took her in arms, held her close, and brought down great kisses, like a barrage of arrows upon her sweet skin. I kissed and tasted, and tasted and kissed, all over herself, until she spilled out adorable laughter. It was music, simply music, and I could not deign myself to let her go.
Something ever-more powerful, took her from me.
When I sink into these memories, to the nights of passion, I wondered if I had penetrated too deeply to strike the heart, and compose a brutal song upon the strings to that organ. Would a church and its nunnery hear it, the music of solemness and angst? I detest myself.
I feel I have defamed my own self.
Winter now buries its presence upon my two shoulders, and I recede back into my ambitions, alike she never existed.