languor of love

Featured

White drapes undulating in the calm ocean breeze.

Clocks dripping languor.

My wet hair blossoming with orange smell.

Unknown mysteries of the warm ocean exuding from your salty skin.

Your teeth moving slowly, engraving Moorish patterns on my thighs.

Teardrops of abandoned occult passions scenting the air.

Those Sunday afternoons never born, never allowed to die.

Blue, white, green. Almost. 

 

Love Battles #Glass Lovers

Featured

Rage darkened Miguel’s green eyes; his blood was boiling; bible in one hand, sword in the other, breathing heavily, determined not to let his Spanish Armada be sunk the second time.

Ha! And by whom? By a Frenchman?!

Wasn’t Jacques supposed to spend his entire life just alluring the other sex?

Oh, how wrong all of us were to judge Jacques like that!

And how dearly we were to pay for that facile, juvenile judgement of ours.

Steely blue eyes, coat of arms engraved on his shield, Jacques was relentlessly fighting to conquer only one heart; the heart of the woman who Miguel loved.

*

Both of them reduced me to a war trophy.

In the cozy, beautifully tiled hacienda, darkness broke loose.

*****

From the manuscript Glass Lovers

 

Sin

Featured

Miguel was there with me almost every day caressing my perfumed body, drinking every nuance of my spoken words, breathing in my abysmal silences.

I was his Mexico. He was my version of a mirific conquistador: magnificent green eyes, blood pulsating in his temples, bible in one hand, roses in the other.

We both knew that something much stronger than sexual attraction, or even love was growing between us. Yet we could not put a name on it.

Miguel had a proclivity for self-sacrifice.  He was the first to ask for redemption, before he even knew for which sin he was supposed to be forgiven.

Alas, I should have asked too.

*************

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers   

 

for you #short prose

Featured

Memories of a humid summer, dripping with love, when you finished your book.

In the night red wax is trickling over a torn page that says, “for you- whose love fills my life with joy and makes all things possible.”

My arms ache trying to pull you back from a memory abyss filled with pain.

Can I still make all things possible?

The walls stay silent.

 

@short-prose-fiction 

 

solitude #poetry

Featured

my taffeta dress falling

on the floor

staining the carpet

with the violets of beach pea.

 

your kisses morphing

on my neck

into the loneliness

of sand castles lost to sea.

 

the shining mirror now reflecting

a golden painting of a nude

Márquez is finishing in silence

his hundred years filled with solitude.

*

reference to Gabriel García Márquez’s work One Hundred Years of Solitude

 

 

inheritance: don’t cast the stone

Featured

oh, don’t cast the stone

my dear reader

before you understand

what kind of love is hidden

into the ripping of the shirt

at midnight

when ancient rituals

are blessing

the meeting of the minds.

 

don’t cast the stone

my dear reader

until you know thyself

and step

into the wisdom of all ages

coming to know

mermaids from prophets

and courtesans from

Dante’s Beatrice.

 

and even then

don’t cast the stone

for you are not

without sin.

 

daily prompt: inheritance