A Request from a Songwriter

RMPsheetofmusicThere was another life that I might have had, but I am having this one. -Kazuo Ishiguro

The first shaking ray of sunshine crosses the sill and scatters erotic, commanding dreams from sleepy lids, leaves lovers names hanging in fragmented fog,  drapes imperceptible want across the woman.

Another one has arrived, another day.

They do this, these mornings.

Another day begins, exists, will leave her again.

She takes a moment to remember who she is in this space, presently.

She has consistency, prostitutes herself for her conveniences, steels her mind to make her choices line up in sensible order.  She gives, says, is what she promised she would be when she sincerely pledged to selfless giving.

She is the same sane woman she once was though shifted slightly off kilter, facing the wind, hearing more music, tapping her toe when waiting in the checkout line, when sitting in back-to-back meetings, when debating with friends at Thursday night book club. Sincerity is compromised. Yet she shines. She dances.

Rising up, another day’s sun finds her face, her hair shows its stubborn streaming waves, and the color,  in this full honest glare, radiates satisfaction.  Lips parted, her hand, palm open, fingers curled but for the longest,  which travels up her outer thigh, slips under her gown, and is now swayed to circle the soreness,  pulling back to her pretty little head,  the fragments of the mind play of yesterday.

Rudely disturbed by this day’s beginning, fingers continue, tracing yesterday’s tongued pathway.

Rising up, from this bed, limbs fatigued with yesterday’s embraces, with yesterday’s straightening, pulsing, flexing.  Yes, her calves tell the painful pleasure of contraction, those core contortions from pointed toes, from nipples shouting. She wakes to this sweet distraction, knowing the magnetic pull between her thighs and his, this, this, keeps her tethered to the present, timeless in her pursuit to feed her mind and face the dawn.

This, is why she hears the music, the sultry sounds of jazz, the blaring call to the floor, the beat of connection, the uncontrolled undulation of toe to knee to hip to core. This is what escapes courageously through her fingertips on the dance floor of his bed, his mind, through his demanding self.


Rising up from this sun shaken morning bed, yesterday has slipped away, memories have been made, and her limbs- her limbs still her own but no longer his- she is the same woman she once was, except she is not. 



for Reticent Mental Property, November 8, 2013 photo credit to heykiki.com blog


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