Comments

  1. Debbie says

    “Shhh, my dear, don’t be afraid, all will be well” breathed my heart. “Lean back into the warm bosom of mother earth and she will caress your face and hair with fresh ocean breezes until you relax and breathe deep the musky scent of life around you. Close your eyes, my darling child, and I will tell you a fairy tale.” My heart paused for a moment, took a deep breath and then gathering all of the love of the universe began this story…

    Once upon a time, a beautiful little girl was born into an illusion. When her eyes were young and still unfocused, she did not know all about her was not real. It seemed real and that is where she dwelt. There were pretty flowers, lots of sunshine, laughter and the others around her seemed happy and content. But there were monsters lurking in the shadows of the night.

    Because the little girl, and the others with whom she lived, did not see beyond the surface, they could not protect themselves from the evil spell that was about to descend upon them shattering their illusions. The brave warrior who lived with them was the first to fall, but not into death, into something much worse. The little girl watched while snakes slithered through the mind and body of the once brave warrior directing his every move and response. Next to go was the Queen. The spell cast upon her darkened her eyes to beauty and she now saw only ghosts and fear.

    So when the monsters started to come for the beautiful little girl, attracted by her inner light and sweet energy, there was no one left to help her. In fact, all of the others with whom she lived were also being chased by demons. It seemed there was no where to turn, no place that was safe.

    One night ,alone and afraid, with the monsters scratching at her door, the little girl turned in desperation to the magic mirror on the wall. Sometimes, in the past, the mirror had helped by reflecting the days before the darkness came, the early days of the illusion. On this night, the beautiful little girl stared deep into the magic mirror and prayed for delivery from her terror and the fate of being consumed by the demons.

    Alas, what the child did not know was that the magic mirror had already been poisoned by the evil around them. Instead of teaching the child to see or battle her fear, the mirror amplified the threat and only offered the terrified child a equally sinister option. “My poor dear”, the mirror cooed, “you are right. There is no one who will help you. You are all alone. You must hide to survive. You must hide where no one will ever find you. That is the only way for you to be safe. And I am the only one who can help you get there. But you must know, that once I hide you away from the monsters, you will be invisible. You will be safe but no one will ever see you again.” The mirror waited…

    The beautiful little girl was trapped. First by the illusions of her youth and now by the reflections of the mirror. She knew what the mirror offered was a terrible trade-off and she hesitated. In that moment the battered door flew off its hinges letting the hungry monsters into this last place of refuge. As they pawed at her flesh and began to chew on her soul, she cried out to the mirror “Save me, save me! I agree to your terms. Please hide me from these monsters!” And with that she disappeared, and the demons were now left with only the illusion of the little girl, her self essence was gone. Without the authenticity of her real life energy, the monsters soon lost interest and move on to other prey.

    My heart paused, and cast a worried look at the young girl resting comfortably in her nurturing space. Sensing an important moment in the course of the fairy tale, the young girl opened her eyes and asked my heart, “Whatever happened to the beautiful little girl? Did she really disappear? Is she still alive somewhere? How does this fairy tale end?”

    “Oh” said my heart, “she is still very much alive but remains hidden away.” “But why?”, asked the young one basking in the sun’s loving warmth, “aren’t the monsters gone?”

    My heart continued with the story, carefully now;
    Well, the truth is that because the little girl still had trouble seeing anything more than illusion, she actually believed she was invisible. As such, she became invisible to all others whose eyes never developed to see beyond illusion. The evil spell of the mirror didn’t actually make the little girl disappear but it did trap her deep within the secret labyrinths of her soul where she wandered lost for many years. She believed that no one could see her because she could not see or feel herself.

    What the beautiful little girl did not realize is that beyond the clouds of illusion, there was always true love and caring waiting for her. Every once in a while, as she wandered lost over the years, a shaft of brilliant light would penetrate her dark world and she began to have hope. With the tiniest bit of hope to hold tight to, she started the long climb out of her dungeon.

    The young girl suddenly sat up straight, turned to my heart and asked, “Did she ever make it out?” Smoothing the young girls soft tresses in a comforting gesture, my heart replied, “She is very close to being free for the first time in her life. And I believe this fairy tale will have a happy ending.”

    • Andrea says

      Those that can’t see the little girl because they only see the illusion are not those that the little girl needs. She needs those that see her brightness no matter how hard she tries to hide. The others are not worth a second thought.

    • Ilana says

      Debbie- I have read this three times, trying to take it in and respond. The truth is it hits a little too close to home for me and I am left startled. It is beautiful, creative and expressive. Thank you for sharing it.

  2. Ana says

    The breathings of my heart are unhappiness’s feminine side.
    The breathings of my heart have gauged brown eyes.
    The breathings of my heart leave Heaven’s purpose to angels.
    The breathings of my heart shake before photos of Indian loam.
    The breathings of my heart cry incessantly.

    • says

      I’m just home from 10 days in Mexico and coming into my sleeping house last night, greeting by the growing kitten, and my sleeping daughter and spouse–seeing the familiar and the comfortable and the deep history of love in this house, I could feel the breathings of my heart easing my jetlag and exhaustion. To be able to travel and adventure…and then come home to this!

  3. Bobbie Anne says

    The breathing of my heart is the essence of me. The breathing of my heart is in my poetry. The breathing of my heart is my life and my art. The breathing of my heart is a steady beat. The breathing of my heart is for me to feel. The breathing of my heart makes my love for you real. Yes, you can feel the breathing of my heart expressed out loud. It goes on and on. I’m real and my heart beats in time with the Divine Spirit’s Purpose for my being here right now. It is clear that I have work to do. Now, I’m going to go do it!

    • Debbie says

      Bobbie Anne – I really liked your line “the breathing of my heart is in my poetry”. That resonated with me as I sometimes reread my writing and hear a completely different message than when I composed it. Thanks for that insight.

  4. Camilla Sørensen says

    The breathings of my heart is to make a mistake of a life-time, and figure out people don’t leave, but do whatever they can to forgive you with a gentle heart.
    The breathings of my heart is to come home from a mistake of a life-time and find that I have people around me who loves me infinitely.
    The breathings of my heart is to forgive myself for this mistake and learn like all other human beings – I am not infallible.
    The breathings of my heart is – I still have love in this huge heart of mine – I discovered in making a mistake of a life-time.

    • Debbie says

      Forgiving ourselves is often the hardest part and most wondrous gift. Your words seem full of caring and redemption. I enjoyed reading your post.

    • Ilana says

      Camilla- To make the “mistake of a life-time” and find forgiveness. What a beautiful thought. I agree with Debbie forgiving ourselves is often the hardest part but your piece has given me hope. Thank you for sharing it.

  5. Paula Hill says

    Your heart’s breath whispers wildflowers
    from a distant meadowland,
    and a lark’s song in the early morning I LOVE YOU……
    rest upon my lips
    made dewy from your sweet tongue…

    The faintest breeze stirs upon my brow
    as we row upon a riverstream
    whilst Lady Moon rises and sheds
    her white gown upon the waters
    leading us toward the mystery of nightfall…

    The grasses sing their silent, fragrant poems
    as our limbs touch and twine
    in unison with a rhythm
    known to bees and hummingbirds
    as they sip the pollens of Spring….

    And, seeds burst their shells
    sending delicate tendrils that follow
    a SunMoon dance reigning
    generously over soils and ethers
    throughout the movement of time…..

    We children bask, we bathe
    in the rich orgy of angels
    as they glean the love
    from the passions we share
    with an arrow’s aim towards eternity’s womb….

    Then….

    Our bodies return to the musty sands,
    the layers of clothing
    melt into granules of silica
    as we transform into shining crystals
    from elemental shapeshifting…..

    In my blood resides the sunset…
    in yours, the moonrise…
    shawdowy hues give peeks into destinies,
    the cyclical fates of heavenly promenades
    residing in the beat of a drum…

    As…

    ….you and I, my love, meet
    and drift on a water’s flow,
    gripping a weathered, floating, fallen tree…
    ancient roots loosened by storms of wind and thunder
    guiding us to the broadening sea
    upon which we become gallant drops…

    Life is love…..a beating heart’s breathy joy,
    a beauty’s lost sorrow…
    ushered into an ember’s glow,
    so tender to the breeze’s stirrings…
    and the sun will rise tomorrow….

    ***************************

      • Paula Hill says

        …And to you, Debbie, a celebratory clink of two wine glasses to your metaphorical fairytale of what I have interpreted as a wonderful and hopeful conveyance of inner child work…..

  6. Ilana says

    “Please breath. In and out. Slowly, so no one can see what you’re feeling. Good, the air that came out was clear, clean. No one could see the muck. You successfully kept it hidden.”

    Now I am alone. “Please breathe.” I ask again. “Clean yourself. Blow out all that pain, all that searing, charred ash that used to be your self.” I blow out. The smoke is black and sooty. It burns my nose, my throat and my mouth. But it is to no avail. The pain I blew out was just a drop in the bucket; such a small amount that my body feels no difference. My soul, my being, feel no relief.

    My heart is still heavy and filled with loss. The pain radiates to fill my chest, down my mid section, past my hips to my ankles and feet. It travels up to fill my shoulders and arms, down to the fingertips. Every part of my body is filled with the shame, humiliation, self disgust, disappointment, and hopelessness.

    “Breathe.” I command myself this time. “You’ve got to get it out or it will kill you.” More black smoke burns my nose and mouth as it leaves my body. It doesn’t help. The supply of pain seems to be endless.

    I’m never going to be okay. I despair. No! There’s got to be a way out. In my panic I begin to breathe faster and faster. I am getting dizzy. The room is spinning and I fall onto the bed. The spinning made my eyes and head hurt. I stare at the ceiling waiting for it to stop its dreadful, ugly dance.

    It stops. I close my eyes and let a tear fall from each eye, sliding down the sides of my face to my ears. After a long time my breathing has calmed and I open my eyes again. The ceiling is still there. The breathing of my heart has finally lightened my burden. I am still very sad but no longer in despair. Just like the ceiling, I am still here. Tomorrow we will both be here, me and the ceiling. I take another breath and let in a drop of hope. Then I do it again.

    One slow and measured breath at a time I let in enough hope to ease the pain. I will not feel well today but I will manage to survive until tomorrow. There is hope in tomorrow. There is promise in tomorrow. All I have to do is find tomorrow and if I am still not better then, I’ll just have to do it again. Find tomorrow, find tomorrow’s tomorrow. Fine hope. Find peace. Find freedom.

    • Debbie says

      Ilana – I have never considered the imagery you use to describe breathing out the pain in your heart – so powerful, and your description made my own nose burn. Wow! Two of your lines really struck me and I will be remembering them for a long time: “Just like the ceiling, I am still here.” “There is promise in tomorrow.” The first line made me smile and the second captures so well the lifeline that I sometimes grasp to help make it through the night. Thank you Ilana.

      • Ilana says

        Debbie- Thank you for your comments and your post. It’s nice to know that I am not the only one who finds hope in the inanimate things that we can count on to always be there. And it is truly a gift to know that my words drew this response from you. Never having shared before I found this community, I do not take that for granted. I don’t think I ever will, though.

    • Terry Gibson says

      Ilana, such a vivid description of emotional processes. I find it very lovely. Patience is what I had to learn. I just couldn’t heal quickly enough for my agenda; I did not want to wait another hour to start making up for the years lost.

      • Ilana says

        Terry- So well put. I cannot wait to stop being afraid to stop hurting. To understand my life and how I am supposed to live it. Thank you for understanding and helping me feel less alone. Thank you for inviting me to count you among my sister survivors. IM

  7. Eugenia says

    My fictional story:

    “Honey,” said Irina, the owner of St. Petersburg restaurant, in that intimate voice, as if we were the closest of friends. She hugged my shoulders and breathed in my ear. “I am so glad you choose this place for your birthday.” Then she added with indignation, straightening up. “All those Yelp reviews saying that we substitute sole for sturgeon are false. Totally false.”

    “Don’t worry,” I responded, “I don’t care about the reviews. I trust that you have the best Russian food in Minnesota.”

    Irina nodded, loosened her grip, and led me to a small room separated from the big one by a heavy red-and-gold carved door. My room looked festive — a round table covered with a tightly starched red tablecloth, three-tier serving racks full with food, vases, high-backed chairs with maroon pillows and curved legs, and high windows covered with plush red curtains. Room’s decor was fit for a czar, if it weren’t so cheap, and the air wouldn’t reek of cooked cabbage.

    “There will be a Bulgarian wedding in the other room, at the same time with your birthday. They won’t bother you, I promise. You are welcome to come out and use their dance floor.” She tightened her embrace again, and winked at me, “You will be dancing on your eightieth birthday, wouldn’t you?”

    I wished she would loosen her embrace

    Only six people would celebrate my birthday with me tonight. Oh, I used to have many more friends, and our family used to be big and loud. There were four older sisters, me and my younger brother, Sammy, five uncles and aunts on each side, countless second and third cousins, and various auxiliary relatives. But since I left my home thirty years ago, they moved too, died, or we lost connection…

    Six years ago, my daughter Lydia got divorced, and moved from Westlake to Maple Grove. I went after her to help her take care of Sammy. My Sammy. They were so much alike, my grandson and my baby brother. Both were gentle and needy for everyone’s approval, and both had these soft sloping shoulders, as if they carried an invisible burden.

    The guests in the big room were gathering. Small orchestra consisting of a piano and an electrical guitar players, and a very thin middle-aged singer, cheerfully greeted each guest with a loud passage from some Bulgarian march.

    Lydia walked in. “Happy Birthday mom,” she said, trying to smile. Her voice and her lower lip quivered. Lydia extended a small velvet box, and a slightly wilted bouquet of winter roses.

    “Something happened?” I asked, taking it all from her hands.

    “Sammy’s teacher called,” Lydia said, blowing her nose. Six years after her divorce, Lydia still was as nervous and bitter as the day she learned that David was leaving her. I did what I could to keep her stable. But mostly, I watched after Sammy.

    “She said that Sammy was hugging and kissing Bobby. Bobby’s parents are furious,” she ripped off her shawl, and tugged on her sleeve.

    “Don’t worry. He’ll learn not to do it.” I responded over the “Let’s greet Albena and Gavril, the brothers of our bride!” greeting.

    Lydia shook her head, small beads of sweat ran down her temples. “I don’t know what to do with him…”

    I knew that my daughter didn’t see what I saw. She’s never met my baby brother.

    “He’ll learn,” I repeated.

    When my brother was twenty-six, he came to me. “Sofia, I found a girl I am going to marry,” his voice was trembling with hope.

    “Like everyone else,” I agreed. “Like you’re supposed to.”

    I saw that Sammy’s eyes were full with fear, but I hoped it would pass. He hugged me, then raised his head and smiled. It was his usual, always-guilty, smile, that said, “I know I am a disappointment to you.”

    “You will be the best husband there is,” I said, and then I danced at his wedding.

    My little brother was pale as he sat on the pillow at the head of the table, his happy bride at his side. He wouldn’t drink a drop of vodka, and he kissed this new wife reluctantly, as if she weren’t an alive woman, but a lifeless rag doll.

    I still hoped it would settle.

    A year later, she left him. “I don’t need a girlfriend,” she said, brushing her wide hip with her hand.

    Back then, I didn’t understand what she meant. Nobody talked to me about such things, and I have never met anyone like Sammy.

    “You’ll find another girl,” I said to him, and brought him some tea and his favorite gooseberry jam.

    Sammy sat at my table with his eyes closed, rocking back and forth. I don’t think he heard me.

    After our tea, Sammy went to his room, and hanged himself.

    “When will David bring Sammy?” I asked, but couldn’t hear Lydia’s response over the cheery march. Lydia took off her coat, sat at my right, but didn’t even glanced at the food. She held her cell phone in both hands, and hectically pressed its buttons.

    My guests sat down around a table tightly packed with all the expected Russian appetizers. Irina herself brought out wine and hot entrees. There was everything I’d expect — pate’s, bliny with caviar, cold cuts and salads. My guests said a few toasts praising me, the survivor of a Ghetto, the brave immigrant, and a devoted mother and a grandmother.

    I listened, nodded, and thanked them. I probably even said a few jokes. But I was waiting for Sammy.

    “Gramma!” the door flew open, and my grandson ran in. He didn’t stop to say hi to the guest, and didn’t greet Lydia. My Sammy buried his face in my lap, wetting my dress with his breath. I covered his head with my hands, cradling him in my lap. Then, I hugged and kissed him.

    “What is this, honey?” I asked, tracing a fresh scratch with my finger.

    “Bobby beat me up,” Sammy’s eyes turned wet and sad, his lips trembled. “Nobody likes me.”

    “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll talk to your teacher, and to Bobby’s parents. I’ll protect you.”

    Sammy’s raised his head and smiled at me, his little teeth shining. “You are my best friend, Granmma.”

    “And you are mine,” I said. I knew it was true with all my heart.

    The musicians in the big room played a slow Bulgarian dance.

    “Let’s dance,” I said, getting up from the table.

    Sammy’s soft fingers tightly grabbed mine.

      • Eugenia says

        Thank you Laura. There are two generations of Sammys — you got it right… this is a quick story written in response to your wonderful prompt. ‘a shitty first draft’ that may turn into something… may be.
        Thanks for reading and welcome back!

    • Debbie says

      Eugenia – I have eagerly awaiting your story this week – and was not disappointed. Also deeply touched as I have known, well, some “Sammys” and “Sallys” whose families outright rejected them because of who they loved, or hoped to love. Some of them would have treasured the Grandmother of your tale! Just to have someone who could accept them as they were/are within their biological family.
      P.S. – I felt your influence on me as I wrote this week. I rarely attempt dialogue but your stories inspired me to try!

      • Eugenia says

        Dear Debbie,
        thank you so much for your warm encouragement. I also read everybody’s posts here, and waiting for yours every week. I love your sincerity, and hope to learn to be as honest with myself and in my writing as you. Your posts are invaluable.
        With all my heard I wish you the best, and look forward to more of your posts.
        Warmest wishes,
        Eugenia

    • Ilana says

      Eugenia- I have read this several times and held off on responding because I was so deeply moved by it. I cannot imagine how trapped both of the Sammy characters must have felt. Your work is fiction but you write with such depth and love that I can’t help but feel it coming from your heart. Thank you. When I wrote that you tell “our” story so beautifully I was referring to all Jews, your story, my story. I will take you up on your invitation to share about my visit to the camps and ghettos when Laura’s prompt inspires me to do so. Thank you for your posts and your responses to mine. Like many others in this online community, your words have come to mean so much to me.

      • Eugenia says

        Dear Ilana,
        Very grateful for your comment. Thank you. I am looking forward to your ‘our’ stories. I think they need to be told. May be in a new way, may be in a new voice, but each is important.
        Thank you for reading.
        Just a many amateur writers, I have been looking for my voice and my topic, meaning that my stories should come from the bottom of my heart. Hope they touched you, and hope I will get better with time…
        Warm regards and my best.
        Ready for the next prompt!
        E

  8. Debbie says

    Laura – I just have to say “thank you”, once again, for this space you have provided for sharing, healing and growing. I keep searching to find some phrase more eloquent to convey my appreciation. Until then, however, though the words may be simple, the depth of the gratitude is not.

    • says

      You’re welcome, of course. It’s lovely to have an idea bloom in my head and then manifest itself so elegantly here, even better than I imagined. I’m all about building community–and this is a growing, dynamic supportive one. Keep coming back!

      • Ilana says

        I’d like to add my thanks to yours, Debbie. The anonymity of the online community has given me the freedom to be completely honest. Never have I written so freely and felt so safe sharing. Although none of you knows my real name I have shared with you truths I have never dared share with anyone. It is the most amazing feeling. Thank you, Laura and thank you my fellow writers.

  9. says

    The breathings of my Heart
    the breathings of my heart have a story to tell
    the breathings of my heart no not what to do
    the breathings of my heart are weapons of war
    the breathings of my heart take no hostages–including me
    I am wrapped in the breathings of my heart
    my heart is full and sound
    wicked and strong
    tethered and alone
    the breathings of my heart continue alone
    I have held her hostage for too long
    I have let her weep alone
    I have punished her for being bad
    I wish my heart would heal
    I do not know how to let go of myself
    I do not know how to reveal the true nature of my beauty
    My heart will tell me only so much
    I wish I knew more.
    I am a wicked soul, a spirited flight, an awesome incantation
    I am last in a series of forevers
    I am a heart soul unlike any other
    I am forever tied to the last one
    I must release me- for she is gone
    but I am still the one waiting to be found
    See me, everyone, I am here.

    • Debbie says

      Your last two lines have stayed with me all day – they send a chill up my spine and I feel this response within me that wants to say back that although I don’t “see” you – you are most definitely here. “but I am still the one waiting to be found” – haunting. Thank you.

  10. Amy C says

    The breathings of my heart

    The breathing of my heart is my father; in all I do, in every success, in every failure, he is there. He is whistling off key as he pads across the kitchen floor, putting away dishes with deft precision, reading the paper, drinking coffee– dull as dishwasher and as flavorless, too. My father was perfect in my eyes, and in the eyes of my sister and brothers. Larger than life, quick to smile, remarkably patient, painfully flawed, we adored him. We still adore him. Daddy was our first line of defense when we were irresponsible, our fall back position when we failed. He never said, “I told you so.” Not once. Not in all my years. He would bite his tongue, stare at the ground, shake his head, shrug his shoulders and come up with a plan. He could solve anything—fix anything. A decapitated Barbie was given new life under his capable hands (although, he laughed for reasons then unknown when popping her big blonde head back on her naked torso). He bought cars for children who eventually demolished them. A 68 Buick, A GMC suburban truck, a Nissan sedan became metal turned into mulch. At twenty-two, I tee-boned a Cadillac. His sole response: “Don’t cry honey, that’s what insurance is for.” He worked a sixty-hour week for forty years, and when he retired, he became full-time Pop Pop to my brother’s son. Mom came home one day to find her bras spinning from the ceiling fan. His defense? “What? It made the baby happy.” In retrospect, he would have been a hard man to be married to: he made decisions without consulting mom, he most likely experienced a surge of creativity when reporting earnings to the IRS, and for my entire college career, I used paper and pens supplied by his employer. The thing was, unless you were my long-suffering, mother, you didn’t care. People knew Daddy’s flaws but they seemed so trivial in the light of his huge heart. I’m sure that I’m not the only one who lost their breath once he was gone.

  11. Julia says

    I’ve lived most of my life keeping the pain of my past to myself. I carry the secret shame of a childhood affliction called bed-wetting, or enuresis. I grew out of it at age 14, but no one ever talks about it. We talk about office politics, gays in the mililtary, sex, violence, drugs, war, and death. My personal experience with childhood bed-wetting is cold, wet, dirty, stinky, smelly and ugly. I do believe, however, that having that affliction may have saved me from teen sex, pregnancy,and becoming oversexed with guys. It also left me alone and somewhat isolated from my brothers and sisters who were busy making friendships and sleeping over at others’ houses. In that isolation I entered the world of my imagination. I cut fabrics for dolls and made all sorts of outfits. I read books, lots of them. I traced figures from books and lied about tracing them, but have become a multi-dimensional artist, anyway. My childhood affliction left little room to be dealt with. Once, I remember my parents answering an advert in the newspaper about help for enuresis. I recall this because some strange people came to our door one day with brochures about it and I was embarassed and humiliated on top of being extremely shy. It just made matters worse. My parents didn’t talk kindly to me. I was called “polecat”. I didn’t even know what that was at the time. It is another word for skunk. I was called a “lazy ox”. After my father died from alcoholism, I had a much larger responsibility as a child to help with household jobs. With five kids in the house, the chores were lengthy. We had no dryers. We mopped with a string mop. We washed dishes by hand. I was bending and suffering under the weight of the responsibilities. My emotions were festering and I was rebelling against having to grow up so fast. I also was afraid that if I did not stop wetting the bed, that no one would want to marry me. I spent a lot of time with God and Jesus. My cries must’ve been heard, because around my 14th year, my menstrual cycle began. I worried that the blood and the urine would make my life an ever larger mess. But, God/Jesus must’ve cared. I stopped the habit, shortly after my father died, in October of 1972. He was a scary person when he was drunk and when he was wanting for a drink. I think that when he died, the fear I had of him must’ve let up and died, too.

  12. Terry says

    A long-maned and lovely Jewish woman
    Who was as elusive as the unicorn
    You startled my life by chance
    With eyes like oil pools
    Ignited by a match.
    You beset the shy girl in me
    And set wildly aflame the
    Lusty and aching woman.

    Your voice was like liquid honey
    Caressing my every fold and crevice
    With the gutsiness of a woman truck driver
    Sipping cold coffee from a thermos
    Windshield wipers slapping left then right
    Stray branches crashing against the window
    But still pushing on through the battering storm
    To make an early morning delivery.

    When rain seeped into your car trunk
    You said, “My whole life is soaked!”
    A thrill ran through me as I laughed,
    Sighed, and then reddened
    Remembering last night when
    Our sweat-drenched bodies
    Rocked against each other
    In a marathon-long
    Statement of our fever–
    For each other,
    Our lives, the
    said and unsaid, and
    the words only alluded to
    In unremembered dreams.

    It is over now and it stung
    Far beyond my ability to say
    Yet I saved the dear moments
    In a growing file of memories
    In which my suspicion and doubt
    Were shattered for that moment
    By the throatiest of love’s delights
    And the enigma of surprise.

    • Ilana says

      Terry- Startling. I loved your description, “Our lives, the said and unsaid and the words alluded to only in unremembered dreams.” Unremembered dreams are an experience of some fascination to me. I remember how the dream felt, tasted, but not a detail of the events. I also found the idea that you could be ‘stung’ by the ending of the relationship but still save the dear moments inspiring. That takes a lot of strength and courage. Thank you for sharing this.

  13. Terry Gibson says

    Thanks Ilana. My unremembered dreams, mostly night terrors, had a huge impact on me. I am told I sob in my sleep and I wake up, with adrenaline pumping, in fight mode. Reacting to forces I didn’t understand. I also find them fascinating, a puzzle of sorts, like you said.

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