IN YOUR ARMS
Your strong arms wrap around me
A dream. Illusion
Yet your touch, your eyes piercing
Caressing. ‘Tis home
She smiles as she re-reads her finished poem for the nth time. Sometimes, her muse sits next to her. Those moments please her. All she needs to do is find the image that would go with the poem. She recognized a year ago that her poems carry more impact when on pictures. The picture does not paint the words but it complements her written verses.
She opens her images folder and starts scrolling down the hundreds of pictures on the sub-folder holding the majority of files saved through the years. Overall, considering all the sub-category folders, there are several thousands of photographs. She scrolls down slowly, at times scrolling back up, not wanting to miss a single image. She does not like using pictures that others use. She likes the personal touch. She prefers her original. Only when her own collection fails to produce the perfect one that would enhance the emotion her poem evokes would she turn to the internet.
Tens. Hundreds. She cannot seem to find a picture of her with her fiancé’s arms wrapped around her. Their photos together has his arm around her waist, at best. Almost all of them has him perfectly posed, his hands to himself, and she would be the one affectionately holding him.
Yet, in bed, he craves the cuddles. In bed. He shows affection, and holds her. In bed, where he wants sex. When he wants sex.
She gives up and picks an old picture with her boyfriend from almost twenty years ago.
She has more pictures with strangers and male friends holding her tight. Thoughts begin to flood. They swirl in her mind. The question pokes at her. Could it be? Are her friends more intuitive than she is?
Five years before, she dismissed the thought that her fiancé chose to be with her for reasons other than real love, although she knows that life with her is comfortable, whether or not a man could afford her lifestyle. With her, one does not need much to enjoy comfort and luxury. One does not need a travel budget, or to save, to heed the call of wanderlust, and not backpacking. She likes the stars in hotels.
She shakes her head vigorously as if to expel the unwelcomed inquisition demanding contemplation. She is better off finishing her poem for the day. Her mind takes her back to the times when cuddling did not precede sex.
Ed Sheeran’s ‘Perfect’ plays on her iPod. The song has never failed to warm her. It always brings out a smile. She suspects her eyes twinkle, too. She cannot understand why her fiancé does not like it.
She closes her eyes. Twenty years seems like a lifetime. Despite the challenges, compared to the present, the past, her young life suddenly seems better: innocently heart-warming.
She opens her eyes and looks up in front of her. The sun is trying to shine through the grey clouds. She is happy enough to have memories to cherish; no one is faceless in that old world.
I have to share that I am over the moon that not only did I start writing poetry again, although only Tanka, but I actually managed a little short story… after months! Perhaps my muse is back. More importantly, I am actually choosing to sit on my arse and write instead of gallivanting. 🙂
Thank you for your continued support and encouragement!
Much love and hugs,