La Résonance

Burnt orange steel, a window to the slate of time rendered in slow motion. The passing of jagged edged wheels; the bittersweet memory of the piano keys caressed by my love.

A melody, silent, yet impressed with wind's caress that sets my mind afloat, remembering the moments when ...

If notes could suggest, a single temptation, the desire for my own deeply sensual rhythms, I am certain that my body would unfurl like the first bloom of spring time.

Once I was so softly caressed, a welcome warmth amidst the busy yet stopped traffic, that now screeches back in time, before my reach.

A copper field awaits, adorned with the freeze framed moments of a life that solidify their presence between the new pavements.

A new place to be, up high and complex, that twists and turns, eagerly awaiting my unravelled dream, across the burnt orange precipice of a street changing in beats of time.

A blossoming euphoria, to escape the entanglement of our bare bodies, trapped by the prolonged clinging sheets and heat soaked air of past woes.

To be, just for this lightly treaded moment ...

A passer by in my own life.

Stepping outside my soul, I see a young woman, hair blowing in the breeze, calm, together yet deep inside she burns intensely like a bonfire. It is my portrait that I could capture now with light, yet firm brush streaks: an impressionism on the etched streets of my lingering time.

My sleep is now cold and vacant, pressing my fingers into the mattress to reach for the warmth that has already vacated my soul.

La résonance, my mother once called it: a deep, pressing feeling that almost tears you apart within. A moment of heroic growth that once passed, was the true step into womanhood.

Tap into the bittersweet and let it linger behind you. All of life's steps will fall into melody then, she shared knowingly, her eyes sparkling.

It is hard to erase the lingering smell of café au lait; the traces of my love's fingers pressed into my palms; his deep eyes as soft as candle wicks of desire ... a love note that rests in the still air.

Yet I crave ... les pointillés moments of my soul's sheer adventure in burnt steel: my hair free in the breeze, fingers gripping the raw grease of life's newly paved moments. My heart races in anticipation of overcoming the potholes of life buried deep within the streets of my youth.

I yearn to step away from the sour cider of kisses that impressed their blame across my cheeks.

To be young, is to embrace that certain ... je ne sais quoi.

I feel it in this burnt orange air, amidst the scrapes and grit of life that churns. A new lease on youth, warmly dressed, yet heated beneath the winds of change.

What of the stairwells into plains of life's desires? A treasure chest that awaits to strike the match of my hibernated, internal flame. To have rested, amongst the ravaged scratches and chipped paint, digging my soul into a tune that ripped itself away from my tender soul.

This city of love, l'amour of my own wrestled soul, yearning for the return of those gently pressed piano keys. The deep need for my heart to cave, like a luxurious feather pillow, aroused by the dizzying heights of life. An awaiting ivory tune of sensation and brilliance, amongst the disintegrating moments of love passed.

To yearn for that new ... budded awakening that flakes and dissipates once the days change from orange to a bleak grey.

He lingers behind me, peering through the double glazed window. The curtains are open, rustling rhythmically in the wind, at sea in my cruising soul.

One last gaze ... back at that window, where those deep black locks flair in the breeze. His soulful eyes, like pools of warm cocoa, that once sunk my heart in the comfort of his embrace.

Stay there, a bittersweet linger. His impressed memory is a strength that I will carry, across the burnt orange render of new life that I venture.