Variation on a Theme: Daphne and Apollo

She turns. 

Yet again,

that swivel to the back,

the weakening in her middle, heart

succumbing to the longing

for sight, the way a flower

seeks the sun that gives it 

life even as it, too, burns

its way through the liquid

pathways, fire portending 

danger. 

Her arms, flailing, exasperation 

manifesting in the force, frail

and brutal, all at once--

how much longer will the feet hold

this run, this escape to nowhere 

from the very thing she holds dear 

and yet shuns? Briefly, she pauses,

a slight billow in the breeze,

a figure swaying, in-between,

praying for elsewhere--

And he of swift limbs poised

to capture, reaches out with all the strength

he can muster, encircles

her slight paleness with his embrace,

solid and pure, grasping, locking

her length with his, pleading, tenderness

and force in the confused whirl

of the moment

which he knows is his, 

for now she is looking, at last,

in his eyes, a sad sweetness, her soul

reaching out for his:

Anchor me. 

Tonight, I, too, can write the saddest lines

And when I think of violins, I will think of you. You, waiting, as I walk toward you. You, smiling, your hands on your waist, holding promises of yet unseen blue skies and beautiful shorelines, of yet unknown pleasures shared in coffee cups and delightful lunches, in laughter, in conversations. 

When I think of trees, I will think of you leading me to one, trying to help me climb one. I will think of you leaping to cling to a branch, hooting and laughing, happy. I will think of you and me, falling in love with trees together. I will think of you reciting the names of shrubs and plants and flowers. I will think of you giving tea another name, though I will not remember the name, just you, saying it.

When I think of stars, I will think of you, gazing up at the night sky, tracing the constellations with your fingers. I will think of you and I, wrapped in a blanket, warm despite the cold, never more alive despite the hour, the dark. I will think of you, evermore my brightest star, always gleaming. I will think of you, always far away.

When I think of the sun, I will think of you, my sun--ever lighting up my life, shining on my most sought-after dreams. I will think of sunlight slanting across my most peaceful afternoons, peaceful because you are there, because you are you. I will think of bright, fragrant mornings, of clouds we once looked down at, of twilights I am no longer afraid of, because your light was there to ward off the gloom from the approaching dark. 

When I think of elsewheres, I will think of you. And my dreams will be alive where you are, they will go on unfolding, I will live where you are, my voice in the silence that will follow you everywhere. 

Always elsewhere, my love, ever elsewhere, never here. 

Afternoons

The fire is nice and warm and I'm snuggled in my writing chair, my feet up, my main character about to enter his moment of epiphany. You are sneaking up from behind me, planning some antic, thinking I wouldn't notice. 

"Oh no, you don't, mister," I say in a singsong voice, and I feel you freeze. Then, a snicker. I go on typing, laughing inwardly. You walk back to the couch and start strumming your guitar. "You know, if you don't stop being naughty this rain is never gonna stop."

You give me a sheepish look and say, "sorry, love," with that lopsided grin of yours. You look like a very tall 8-year old right now, cute as a baseball cap. You start playing a Jack Johnson song and hum to it.

We had closed shop quite early on account of the nonstop rain and the date today; barely a handful of people would want to be outdoors on an extended downpour like this, anyway. We figured going home would be best and we braved the rain, sharing my small umbrella, which so conveniently snapped as we were running, and so we got soaked, laughing as we raced toward your waiting truck. You had kissed me after shutting your door, hair dripping and all, wet and gorgeous and charming the wits out of me like you always do. 

"Love?" You pause your playing.

"Yes, love?" I, frowning down at my screen, trying to decide if the girl should get ice cream or not, and if it's an essential scene, in the first place. It's almost 6 and I haven't made much progress. 

"I love you," you, "do you love me, hm?"

"You know I do. Now be a good boy and go on playing that lovely little tune--but what is that hideous smell, love?" My voice rises a little in panic.

"Oh, shit, no!" You scram to the kitchen and groan loudly. "My roast beef! Argh!"

I leave my spot and walk toward you, hugging you from behind. "It's ok love, we'll figure something out," I say, staring at the smoky carcass of a once-beautiful cake of beef, now charred, beyond saving. With a pot holder, you take it out of the oven and throw it into the bin, shaking your head, looking at me like a contrite little boy. "Dinner is ruined, love."

I plant a kiss on your cheek and tell you, "I don't care. We can get buy another one tomorrow and do it all again. For now, let's have omelettes!" 

You scratch the back of your head and smile. "Eggs, it is, then."

I take a peek through the curtain and see that twilight has long gone--evening is here, and I think to myself life can't get better than this--the storm, your burnt dinner, the warmth of you and I all around. I shut a window and hum a tune. 

Meanwhile, you are rummaging through the fridge, hellbent on starting a new feast. 

Evenings

My heart is racing, I feel weak in my knees. Tucked in a corner of the bar and sitting in the shadows, I am watching you croon your heart to the crowd. Sure fingers making love to your guitar, brows furrowed in emotion, voice flowing out of your lips luxuriously like the lilac wine you are singing of--you are in your element and I am transported to a beautiful place, where you are, where I am.

I had snuck out of my unfinished manuscript of a story, unable to stand not being with you, not seeing you for an entire day. As quietly and as discreetly as I could, I tiptoed into a corner and now I am drinking you in with my eyes, my senses absorbing all that you are on that stage--electric, intense. I have been praying all night that you wouldn't see me. So far, you have not, and I am free to be invisible in my enchantment.

But now you are singing--

But tonight you're on my mind so you never know/ When i'm broken down and hungry for your love with no way to feed it/ Where are you tonight, child you know how much i need it/

--and you look up from the strings and seem to be searching the sea of people for something, someone, and your eyes sweep past me like the ray of a lighthouse and my heart goes up to my throat for a moment. Soon the moment is gone, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. 

A glow lights up your face and now you are smiling as you sing--

It's never over, my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder/ It's never over, all my riches for her smiles when i slept so soft against her/

--and with one swift tilt of your head, you look straight into my eyes and I know, at that moment, I am invisible no more. Your eyes pierce through my being and straight into my soul, and there we are, meeting in one very definite point in time and space, connected and aglow, incandescent in our shared light, distant and glimmering. 

What is this nameless, endless fire you have given me, Love? What is this brightness you have ignited in me, that sends me reeling with life into the light of all things? 

Let me stay here, found out by you, visible and vulnerable to your seeing, knowing eyes, I who have, yet again, summoned you unknowingly to where I am. 

You always, always arrive. Let me be lost in the middle of all this loveliness--your music, your eyes, your light--for I know you will always come to find me.

Mornings

Reeling with happiness at the stretches of cobbled streets I've stepped on and the rows of pretty awnings I've walked under--but most of all, at the feel of my hand tucked securely in yours--I breathe in the fragrance of Toulouse, shivering a little at the hint of chill in the air, grateful for the warmth lent by the friendly, mildly foreign sun. 

I am proud of myself for having woken up before you, this morning, kissing the tip of your nose and tousling your hair, edging you out of bed, saying, "wake up, Love," five times, when it is always you who says those words, never I. 

Ah, but today, I did. 

I take a sip of my delicious coffee, savoring its fragrance, my skin tingling with happiness at being where I am right now, with you. I adjust the brim of my wide hat--which you bought for me yesterday evening as we were walking back to our hotel, because you know that the sun and I have a love-hate relationship--and watch you staring at a sleek black renault parked across the street. Men and cars, I muse, and try to switch to thinking in the language of this country: hommes et voitures. My "Francaise" is appalling--how does one say this in French? Wait--les hommes et les voitures? 

I frown at my croissant and the pocket dictionary perched beside the plate. When I look up, you are looking at me, smiling. "A lovely morning to you, too, my love," you say, "let me kiss that frown away from your face." 

And you do, leaning over the red-checked table to kiss me.

"Bonjour, mon beau," I whisper back..

"Now how do I call that waiter?" you ask.

"Ah," I say, "you just shout garçon! I think." And you do just that. 

The garçon walks to our sunlit table and asks, "oui, Monsieur? Mademoiselle?" I smile at what he just called me. You gesture with your hands and the waiter looks quizzically at you. You scratch your head, grinning like a shy little boy. 

"Une billet, sil vous plait," I say, and he smiles, nodding, then walks away. 

"I had better look at that dictionary, love," you laugh. 

I smile happily at you, thinking how you are beautiful anywhere, in any language. 

Around us, foreign words float like musical notes, and I sit back on my chair, drinking in the loveliness. You are perfect, sitting across from me, adjusting your glasses and looking up at the sky. There is a dreamy look in your face, and I brim with contentment. What a beautiful morning today is and the rest of the day stretches before us like a promise that's about to be kept, gleaming in the sunlight, golden and bright.