He is a siren call. A
compass point that I quiver towards. The
dream of what we used to be calls me, has become polished and perfected over
days and months and hours and weeks and years of dreaming. The
sound of his voice sends me aquiver as it did so many long agos. The blue of his eyes; I don’t see them rheumy
and clouded as they might be. I see them
clear and shining, glittering and reflecting my longing. My longing then.
It was a hunger that began at the core of me and ran through
my bloodstream, dancing quickly, setting each nerve ending alight. Onwards, upwards, overtaking my lungs, my
heart, my throat, and detouring down towards my fingertips which would lift of
their own accord towards him. And then,
back, up my neck around the base of my brain and spiraling outwards through the
flesh of my earlobes that beckoned him, and dancing aloft my eyelashes, cast to
the winds and calling to him. Ah, how I
did lean towards him.
A lone spruce on a lonelier promontory, buffeted by teenaged
days and nights. But always true. Always yearning. Until, I forced myself to yearn no more.
And now, long years later, still I point true north. I yearn true north. I seek the sunshine of those blue eyes, the
rich liquor that was his mouth, the scratchy false comfort that were his
teenaged arms. He is a siren call and I
dash to the rocks, dash to the shore, dash to the depths of danger and the
shallows where I have perished once before and in my old age, I long to be
dashed asunder again.
