“Now for me some words come easy; but I know that they don’t mean that much. I’m good with the words that are spoken with a lovers touch. You never knew what I loved in you; I don’t know what you loved in me; maybe the picture of somebody you were hoping I might be.” – Late for the Sky – Jackson Browne
Rose felt the trembling tingle of a sleepless night. She stared at the full moon outside her window on Charles Street in New Orleans as thoughts of her lost lover slipped through her fingers. Beams of blue flickered through her window pane and caressed her face exposing the brown stains under her eyes; etched there forever by her rusty tears.
Palmetto bugs danced all around the flames of the many scented candles she’d lit before she lay upon her futon to contemplate her lost desire. She wondered how that same pale blue moon looking down on her could shine down in his eyes all those thousands of miles away.
She dreamed that she was sleeping and in that sleep dreamed how every minute of pure ecstasy she’d felt with her lovers in their cathedral bed had brought 1,000 hours of torment when the alliances inevitably spun apart.
Planets rotated, glaciers melted; and without trying or practicing or even knowing it could be done, just by thinking it, she suffocated her desire, sure that like the morphine that rose like a flood, pounding in her blood, the rapture she felt from her lovers touch was not worth the sickness that came when, always, inevitably, they left her; lost and desolate.
And so, when the next lover arrived and the fevered ecstasy dance began anew, slowly moving them toward each other like a magnet, she surrendered to the pull. Yet, when finally they were inches apart and the game was surely afoot, she felt nothing but the bottomless abyss, completely deserted in a state of bleak and dismal emptiness. Her desire, once so omniscient, the thing which gave her life meaning, evaporated into a whiff of smoke; and she with it went.