I stretch my toes to the end of the bed and my hands to the mirrored headboard. Tight calves and thighs, the concave of my waistline accentuated in the stretch of my body into the light. I curl to the side and in one leap to the left, my feet anchor to the coldness of the hardwood, warming quickly to the rag rug on on the floor.
It’s another day. Reinvention is possible? Though I’ve resurrected myself so many times before? Yes.
I open the bag of coffee and stick my nose deep inside and inhale the tobacco smell of the ground kona bean. I scoop out the measured precision of java and set the brew to go. The lawn is covered with snow. The red cardinal has perched on the line. The sun hits the pane at the same time as I look up into her rays.
It’s another day. The world keeps turning. There are conversations to be had.
Plans to be made.
Lovers to be lost. And found.
And days left to feed my mind and my head and my story line. But no hearts to hold on the horizon. No hands to hold in the dark. No souls to feed the worms of stale regret.
The shell of me is more than most will consume in a lifetime. I am strong and capable, broken-sure, but not like all the rest. I function fine, rise up and cum upon demand. But more critical, I learn and explore, absorb and accept, hold and cherish.
And when I fall, where I land, I know the earth will be forgiving and my mind fed and my heart content.
Heated rows always made her seethe. And learn. And repent, if only for a moment. And then he wisely gathered her up in his strong arms and stroked her hair and kissed her lips and tucked her into his beautiful bed and crawled in beside her to show her his lust did not wane, and her mouth was still his and her choices were still hers to make. She knew the door remained unlocked, his car running with driver at-ready, and the ticket home to Baton Rouge one way.