Love Like a Temple

Once there were a boy and girl who lived in a temple with tall, golden walls. They each had soft, scarlet lips. They stayed inside the temple and spoke words of love and caressed one another with touches as light as the breeze. They occasionally gazed out the temple windows at the round, gleaming moon - and then just went on as before. No one kept time; they were too busy loving to bother with numbers and schedules and rotations and other such nonsense.

One day the girl went into the attic. Everything inside was covered in a fine film of dust except a tiny white clock in the corner. She ran her hand along its face and felt how smooth it was. Lovely. She carried it out of the attic, into the hall, stood high on her tippytoes and hung it on the wall. Satisfied, she wandered off to find the boy and go back to loving. She soon forgot about the clock.

Some time passed and one twilight the girl awoke to a tic-tic-tic. She nuzzled into the boy's ear. 'Don't you hear that?' she asked. And then fell asleep again. They slept soundly for the rest of the night.

More time passed and again she awoke in the twilight. Tic-tic-tic-tic. She lie in the bed for a while and listened. Silence. Silence. And then, tic-tic-tic-tic. Silence. Tic-tic-tic-tic. Eventually she fell asleep.

Soon after she was wandering down the hall and saw tiny flakes of gold flitting to the ground. She went and found a broom and swept them away. Then she asked the boy 'Did you see the gold is flaking off the walls?'

'Nonsense,' said the boy. 'Gold cannot just flake away.'

Again, time passed. And again, she awoke in the night to a tic-tic-tic-tic. The next day she found more gold flaking off the wall. She fetched the boy and led him into the hall, tugging at the ends of his fingers, gently, the way lovers do. 'Do you see?,' she asked. 'Do you see the gold?'

'Oh,' said the boy. 'Oh.' He paused. 'Well, it's only the wall. It's only the gold. This is still our temple and we still love here.'

'You're right', said the girl. 'At least we have our temple. At least we have love.'

The days and nights passed. The round, gleaming moon appeared, then disappeared, again and again. The boy and girl loved. And sometimes little flakes of gold flitted to the ground and the girl swept them away. She did not care for the flaking, or for the sweeping, but she swept and went on with loving.

One dark twilight, the girl awoke with a start. Tic-tic-tic-tic. Silence. Tic-tic-tic-tic. She leaned over the boy. 'Do you hear it, the tic? Listen.'

He rolled onto his back, lie in the dark for a moment gazing at the round, gleaming moon. 'I hear it. But what shall we do? It's just a tic.'

'The tic wakes me up', she said. 'I don't like the tic.' He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close, and they soon fell asleep.

On the darkest twilight of the year, the girl awoke again. The bed shook ever so slightly, echoing the tic-tic-tic-tic. She glanced toward the window, but there was no moon. She lie very still, found the boy's fingertips in the blackness. She listened to the sound of her own breathing, focused on the slow inhale and exhale. But there it was. Tic-tic-tic-tic. And again. Tic-tic-tic-tic. Growing louder and louder. Tic-tic-tic-tic.

She finally rose from the bed and felt her way outside the bedroom, down the hall. At first it was very black but the hall grew lighter and lighter as she approached the clock. As she neared, she saw it had grown as big as the moon, a bright light looming high on the wall. With each tic-tic-tic-tic, the moon-clock shook. And with each shake, little flakes of gold flitted down to the floor.

Tic-tic-tic-tic. Shake-shake-shake-shake. Flit-flit-flit-flit.

She stood up high on her tippytoes and reached for the moon-clock, stretched her fingertips until she just brushed it. And with a flick, she hit it. She thought it would fall to the floor with a clatter, possibly break, but then, that wouldn't be so bad, would it? She could put it back in the attic. And sleep. And love. And not have to sweep any more gold.

But the moon-clock did not fall. There was no clatter. Silence, for a moment. And then... Tic-tic-tic-tic. Shake-shake-shake-shake. Flit-flit-flit-flit.

She tried again, but could not reach. And again. And again. Her lip trembled, the first time such a thing had happened inside the temple. She bit her lip, rose onto her tippytoes again, stretched farther than she had ever stretched. And then - she felt two browned hands slip around her waist and gently lift her. She pulled hard on the moon-clock and a stream of nuggets broke loose from the golden wall, falling all around them. They toppled over.

She pulled herself up to a sitting position, smoothed the hair from her face and looked up. And there was the boy, sitting in a pile of gold rubble, bits of the wall crumbling behind him. Holding a tiny, broken clock. And grinning that grin of his.

She smiled, stood up, dusted the gold flakes off her nightgown and said 'I'll sweep in the morning.' And then she padded down the dark hall back to bed. He followed soon after.

The End

Outside the Box

My entire life is packaged into a neat 10' x 12' box, a tiny room stuffed with books, photographs, pointe shoes, a glass heart, my favorite sweatshirt. Is this all I have done? Why do my memories seem so few, so small, enclosed in these four walls? 

I realize that the footprints of my life, moments of joy and failure, laughter and grief, do not accumulate in stuff, that I carry them within me - and yet I still feel more and more lately that I should have lived larger, fuller, braver, that I let so many moments pass me by. I have always had this prissy tendency to be small and safe and tidy (my ballet teachers will emphatically agree). But the life - that colorful, heartfelt, dauntless kind of living - lies in the chances, the messes, the mistakes. Looking back, I regret very few things I did, and countless more I didn't do. 

I wish I had danced my heart out at that audition, I wish I had kissed that boy, I wish I had bought that plane ticket and ran off to Europe alone, I wish I had walked away, I wish I had come home...

And now: I want to take leaps, make scenes, love with abandon, act on impulse - much, much more than I have so far. I want to fill this room with Italian artwork, tattered love letters, sand-filled seashells, concert t-shirts, stamped passports. I want to get carried away. I'm sure I will leave messes and mistakes in my wake, but they'll be all tangled up with surprises and road trips and sunsets and kisses - they'll be so worth it.  
 

"Men who never get carried away should be." - Malcolm Forbes

Burning Soul

... and suddenly, in the still, quiet moments, I feel it: a tiny orange flame, slowly burning off the last of the ruins. Soon there will be just an empty space, waiting to be filled again. An expanse of possibility, a place to stretch my limbs, to feel free and light and uncaged. A place to reach into a reverie. A place to pull him back to me. I can build anything I want there - a sandcastle, a temple, a cocoon, a bed. I will paper the walls with bliss, bits of music and laughter and poems and wine, and paint the ceiling with stars, and live an eternal dream...

Worshipping Bacchus

I am convinced the answers to all my worries lie in the bottom of this bottle of merlot. I am sprawled on my bedroom carpet next to the heater, two glasses into the bottle, and I already feel much more content about the meaning of it all. I've made solid progress. Really, I swear. I've already had some truly insightful observations, like:

- I'm much less hungry when I drink wine. Who needs dinner? I could save a fortune on    groceries.
- Wow, I need to vacuum. My hair really does get everywhere.
- Still. Hate. My. Thighs.
- Still love him, still love him, still love him...

See, who knows what could be revealed if I keep drinking? A sip here, a swish there, and then... wisdom, nestled right in there among the flavors of oak and tobacco and plum - little keys to make sense of love and life and fleeting happiness, swirling right onto my tongue.

If only it was a malbec, I could uncover the secrets of the entire universe...

Ebb

I close my eyes
and see only
yours,
brown and deep, and
more beautiful
when they rest on
me.

I open my
lips and feel just
air,
a cool nothing
where the soft warmth
of your tongue should
be...

And so I take
my sad, weary
heart
and bury it
deep within, where
you no longer
see.

What Remains

Sometimes in my sleep I find myself back there again, his eager kisses on my lips, ocean air chilling my skin, thunder of waves ringing in my ears. The dizzy euphoria of new love - how quickly the heart fills!

And how slowly that love recedes. Or maybe it never fully does so...

I haven't once asked myself if it was worth it, to love so intensely only to find myself grieving its loss. I have no doubt that it was worth every moment, every tear shed since. It has been six months since we walked away, and the sad memories have already become hazy. The ache of loss steadfastly remains, taking up residence in a corner of my soul, but the sting has dulled, the resentment exhaled with each deep breath.

What I remember so vividly - even now - is the feeling of being wrapped up in love: joy and comfort, stillness and passion, all fused into one. Oh, this is what all those love songs and poems are talking about! I get it now.

I remember the hope that steadied us for so long, and I try to rediscover a little piece of it every day. Somehow I know therein lies my salvation. I hope I find myself willing to take that leap again. I hope I remain ever the romantic. I hope I never regret loving, because that's when I am truly, wholly living. I hope, I hope, I hope.