In a flash my mind shows me a thousand streets tormented by loneliness. These streets – once the grand wine-presses of human bodies and cars – are now haunted by sickness and eaten by desolation.
It’s spring. The ocean’s water is warm like a country bread. I can taste it. The crisp crust, the sweetness of grains and earth melt on my tongue.
I miss you and the chestnut tree from that pastel afternoon when we first kissed.
Why did I love you? Of course, you were handsome, but it wasn’t that. I loved you because you could not have been conquered by the tricks with which a woman conquers most men. Why would I even want a man that any women with lipstick and stilettos can have?
I am digressing, am I not?
It’s spring. The water is red. Under the light of its pearls, flowers open like fresh young lips.
I avert my mind from the memory of your arms which tries to drag me inside an abyss of naked love; a love blessed with the force of the mistral and the sensuality of linked fingers under the moonlight.
The earth and the waters are one.
Yet the pain is heavy and filled with fluids like the chest cavity of a dead animal hanging up-side down.
I can see your boat. It’s beautiful.
The world is sick.
If I say I love you will you tell me what I can do to heal it?
Please read my Spillwords Author of the Year (2019) interview here
Love and good health to everyone.
© short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)