|Cyrano Lives On (standard:romance, 682 words)|
|Author: Cyrano||Added: Aug 18 2018||Views/Reads: 44/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Not a Pied Piper, just a man trying to come to terms with what it is to love.|
Old photographs are evidence, I have been young. I went through in my rush to get a little older, sooner. I've tried pausing, even adding another season into the winter process. A second Autumn. It didn't help. I discovered by adding a second autumn there was still no pause, I was becoming older, even old. Fuck! What is it that has replaced the blue summer nights, the winding paths trod, smelling the scented air of girls, those times I didn't have to think, but imagine myself in the calmness of the forever still left? That's the songster in me, but what about the man? Where is the great golden ship of mischief without me at the helm? Where is the magician of the breast? The pirate who played on flesh covered bones, split the keel between thighs, created a new language for touch, and was free of all moral constraint? When did he jump overboard? What is this old man in his place; a man with super natural powers of decency, thrashing between bookshelves, and not thighs, punishing his ignorance and not breasts, riding the shoreline, not the hills or the gullies of a woman's sensual terrain. No longer diving in the secrecy of desire, my last longings departed. I'm in a place of real tenderness, eating melancholy and regret instead of the sacred universe of femininity. Every day I run a little faster toward the end with no-one watching, my promissory note called in. Old age is most times a bitch, bitter, failing health, but crap, do you think I'm going to apologize for never finding the way I believed out there, but wasn't, never was? Every now and then I see my reflection in the windows of shops, those offering cheap cigars, the kid standing on the shore, the caravan, and the sun sliding towards night's bed. Visions of beauty can happen anywhere, sitting here on the harbor wall, or perched on the volcanic rock of Hawaii, under the vibrancy of waterfalls, dreams falling out of tumbling breezes. But so, too, visions can occur in pissed up telephone boxes, unemployment lines, hospital beds, because in every instance, there is the serenity of a vision that is her lost face. The trick with autumn is letting it lie where it falls. Summer won't be stopped, no matter how hard I try. Summer doesn't care for people like me, coming with all her vibrancy, her closet full of dresses hung on trees in shades of green, having first stored them in secret. Summer, then, is coming to piss me off. If there were a policeman on these shores this early morning, I would tell him that winter has been kidnapped...hang out posters, has anyone seen winter? Reward for instant return. Look, this is a fall beach. When summer arrives, people will make false promises, reinvent the world, or just make my shoreline look so different, not as welcoming. On a summer day, who is going to pull out that old sweater, the one with holes in, have long walks with friends too long to let go. I'm in Tobermory, wistfully thinking of other things; how the colourful houses make the bend look like a rainbow, the once touch of her silken skin snuggling up to my body, the kiss of her mouth, the tingle of her teeth and the close-up stare of her eyes looking at me. Such thoughts have kept me asleep in winter, when sleep is never prevented on warm summer nights. When the Fall comes I put it all together, the shoulders covered, backs sweeping, hips climbed upon. Perhaps I've run too often from these different places, knowing that what I feel is more than dreaming. My writings in winter, always more intense, more personal, walking down ten thousand streets looking for answers to questions ...and the answers never come. Whatever comes to me now must come from deep inside, so clasp my hand, warm my heart, so that the terrible width of sea and the sky is nothing more than you sitting across a room. Summer, be gone. Tweet
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