The streets are quiet
Photograph: Anne Watson
He was like a steamship coursing an endless sea, always traveling somewhere else. Far away and faded from distance and memory to reappear on a winter’s morning.
All I’d ever wanted was for him to stay awhile. He’d drop anchor having found his home in me. We’d find joy as hoarfrost turned to blossoms.
In truth, we were lovers snatching moments. Memories danced from projector to wall. Each clip a scene. In one: a café in Barfleur. The next: a foray through a hidden bookshop. As we lifted the jacket of an all but forgotten ‘Emma,’ history rose dusty and reminiscent of bourbon and oak.
Desire is a fickle mistress. Once more, I’d wake to discover he’d left.
Allow me to share a site I love to read: Harvesting Hecate. Andrea is a beautiful writer.
Author: Andrea Stephenson
Such a pretty tale you whisper
In the honeyed middle of a night
Of ships and sails, silver and gold
While moon beams bathe the veiled dark
We cast pearls upon the sea
One for love and two for loss
Three, for rumpled dreams
Awakening to shaken rain
Each word spoken, locked within.
Julie de Waroquier Photography
Whispered words tip toe across rumpled linen
to nestle in her ear,
“A broken heart is beautiful,” he said.