Autumn (standard:romance, 616 words)
Author: Cyrano	Added: Nov 26 2008	Views/Reads: 3283/2	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
What the books never told me...what I never knew...was that when the great day came, love..............

A warrior of sorts. 

I had to smile when I read I was a peaceful, thoughtful man. I have
fought, screamed and caused trouble all round the world. I have been 
hunted like an animal, thrown into several different prisons with 
varying degrees of hostility. They didn't throw me there because I was 
thoughtful or peaceful. In truth I'm a broken man. I have lost the will 
to fight anymore. I was never fearless, nor could I manage to turn away 
from a fight. That, at least, stems from childhood experiences. I never 
got used to taking a beating, but neither did I turn and run. In the 
end other kids followed me, not because I was a bully but because I 
wouldn't let anyone bully them. 

Traveling away from youth. 

I'm mad sometimes for all the chances I never took...the places not
visited, the midnights that passed unnoticed, that doesn't mean I won't 
take the chance again or stay awake long enough to watch you fall 
asleep. The virgin whiteness of your skin in soft lamplight, even 
though total darkness makes me whole, is enough to heal the recluse in 
me. I'm so elusive I miss the things worth stopping for. 

Rainbows. 

I was always chasing something. Wondering if what we want is attainable,
that in reality it isn't out there anyway.  I feel strange, caught 
almost, as if the need to be off and running is diminished. The truth 
is, since you came into my life, I have no reserve of ideas on where to 
run to next. Stay, then.  I'm lost without you. 

Trekking. 

To those few who know me I believe in bodies and arms entangling and
untangling. I believe, and I know it to be so, that there are so many 
curves, mounds and hollows in a woman's body no traveler can come to 
know them all within a single lifetime. The need for intimacy cannot be 
killed or stopped by one opening that didn't open, by one trick that 
wasn't magic, by one wound of love so fresh it hasn't yet healed. I 
believe in one to one and one on one. No wine or magic can improve on 
that. I believe in spring but only if I am rolling on a pillow holding 
a well loved face in my hands. 

The winter of remembering. 

I am afraid. Yes. Lived a closed life. No need for a therapist to tell
me that I have shut myself away. I did so because I felt a need, not 
because I couldn't cope. There is guilt, of course there is. I cannot 
talk about her. Ten years gone. Just to say how much I loved. I go to 
her grave, stand beside its movement in the wind and the rain and the 
cold and feel her warmth. 

Grief 

I should leave now. The shore is finished collecting what the ocean tide
has discarded. Among the remnants of wreckage cleaned from the ocean 
there is no sign. The ocean holds my torment still. I walks alone, 
momentarily lost, bereft of direction. There's a bottle, with no note 
in it, some netting and the usual straggle of slimy kelp. Over the 
dunes a dog is barking, I don't come in hope of finding her, I come to 
make sure no-one else does. She was beautiful. 

In case you didn't know. 

The wise among us find shelter, not on the shoreline in sandcastles, but
beneath bare limbed trees amid a piling of November leaves. Some days 
come down empty; nights once rigged with stars, dream filled, are now 
barren of comets. How could I know that planets would be blown apart so 
easily? I miss you. 


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