Queen of the World.

 

She stands straight, above the crowd, the gown weighing her down.  She’s tired, worn, but she’s smiling.  She’s genuinely happy, seeing all those below her waving at her.  Slowly, slowly, she raises her hand, and the smile, transformed into a beam, is shining down on those watching her.  She is the Queen of the World.

 

With Love.

They tell me to pen the name,

On the gilt edged paper,

And send it to the one entitled.

They didn’t tell me what it was,

Or what should have been.

When I penned that name,

I felt my heart leap with infatuation.

If I knew what it contained,

My heart would have broken earlier.

Born Different.

 

When I was born, I was vaguely aware that I was different to the person who sat next to me in the kindergarten.  My hair was darker, straighter, overall, prettier.  My lips were fatter and my eyes were a different shape.  But most significantly, my skin was a different colour.  It was what others liked to call ‘yellow’ and what later, I learned, I could also call ‘olive’.  ‘Olive’ sounded better than ‘yellow’ but it still didn’t change that I was different.  And when you’re different, it gets noticed, especially when you have no idea what the best way is to deflect those staring, wide-eyed eyes.

“Why aren’t you doing anything June?”  I look up.  It was Mrs Blake.  The methods teacher.  She didn’t hate me.  Rather she liked that I did all my work before class came round.  The only bone she picked with me, was that I did nothing in class.  I guess it was unfair, that I flaunted my asianness.

“I’m sorry Mrs Blake,” I said, pushing my textbook open with a lazy hand.  “I guess I should do something.”

She smiled sadly and patted me on the head.  It was weird, and it was perhaps the first time that she did it.  But I knew what she was thinking.  I was such a good student, yet I was also such a bad one in her class.

I looked down at the graphs in front of me.  Technically I’d already done them, neatly printed the little numbers around my neatly ruled graphs.  There was nothing like attention to detail.

“Boooo Junneeee…help me!”  Nicki whined to my left.  She was struggling over the fact that her pencilled graph looked too sweet to the right rather than a bell curve.  She tried hard all the time, and generally had good results.  Just, not as good as mine.

“What is it?”  I asked, my pen already poised and my hand already pulling her book to me.

“I have no idea.”  And just like that, I started scribbling over her piece of paper, my mouth and hands moving before she finished talking.  It was just the way that I was.  I liked being smart.  I liked showing off.  But why not?  I have the ability, right?

At lunch, I yawned.  I never ceased being tired.  Nicki was chatting ecstatically, laughing loudly and squealing – well maybe not squealing exactly – on my left, while I leaned my head on Enna’s shoulder on my right.  She was so bony, it was hardly comfortable, but I was tired.

It was rather peaceful, rather comfortable, up until the moment when the class clown decided to crash my parade.

Nate’s a nice enough guy.  His humour is off the wall.  His style, one of his own, and tasteful.  But for some reason, the guy had it in for only one person.  In this entire school, there was only one person he liked to make a huge baboon out of.  And who was that person?  That person was me.

“Juuunnnnnnnneeeeeee!”  Wheeee ka-blam!  I’m knocked off my seat and slammed to the ground.  “Juuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnnnneeeeeeeeeee!”

No other moron would say my name so moronically.  What was he?  A child?  “The fuck!  Get off me!”  I said, but my words were muffled under his overly dressed arm and I had to shove his arm away to breathe.

“What was that bug?”  He said in reply.

“Stop calling me Bug!  God, get off me!”  Not only was I plastered to the ground, but I’d lost my roll too.

He looked at my blushing pissed off face and smiled.  He plucked at my cheeks with his hands as though I was a baby or a little kid he could tease.  It was irritating.  Just because I was a petite Asian, it did not mean I was the same as a kid.  I shoved him off me.  Easy to do, considering the fact that he’d only been sitting on me, not anchoring me.

He tumbled to the ground and I spent several minutes wiping invisible flecks of dirt off my person.  Gross!

“You owe me a bloody lunch, twerp!”  I said not able to look at him.

“Twerp?”  He feigned outrage.  He was anything but small or annoying, but still, he crossed boundaries that I didn’t feel comfortable with being crossed at all.

Annoyed, with a hate more passionate than my love of the canteen cheesy puffs, I stalked out in search of peace and resolution.   To find peace and resolution though, was near impossible.  Granted, I was able to find it by arriving at Studio Arts early.

Ms Smith also loved me a lot.  I may not have many great inspirational art works, nor did I have a particularly interesting art style.  I just enjoyed “creation”.  At that moment though, Ms Smith needed to go out.  She left me knowing full well I wouldn’t do anything that would disappoint her.  To her, I was a responsible student.  I was also hard working and determined.  Both those reasons were enough, still, she locked the art room door behind me, telling me she’d return in time for class.  Technically the door wasn’t locked from the inside, just the outside.  And with that, I closed my eyes, figuratively and started working on my canvas.  Did I mention?  I like manga art.  Or art like it.  It’s just beautiful, and the lines always seem to flow beautifully from my hand.

I painted a warrior, fierce and female, beautiful and strong, yet clearly deadly with that monster blade in her hand.  Well, it was a rough painting, with space to be refined, but still, I wanted to paint it.  I wanted to vent my annoyance.  It happens generally, when I get frustrated.  And this was the only class where I could release it.

“Whoa, that’s really good.”  I jerked, my brush clattered to the ground.  What was he doing here?

He was kneeling on the railing to the left of the door.  In this school, the art room was one of three.  This one sat above the other and while there were two ways to enter, one, the door which my teacher left, or two, the inner metal spiral staircase.  But Nate was kneeling on the railing next to the door which Ms Smith left.

I hated that awed look on his face.  It made me shiver.  And out of habit, I stood in front of the canvas.

“What are you doing here?”  I snapped.

“Why?”  He leapt down from the railing and walked over to me.  His eyes were on the canvas and not me at all.  I stopped him.  Hand on chest, pulsing with unfailing annoyance.

“Nate.  What are you doing here?”

“I was looking for you.”

“Why?”

“Because you looked annoyed, plus I bought you lunch!”  He took my hand and dropped a packed sandwiched in it.

I was about to reject when I saw what was in it.  Egg salad.  Okay.  So I guess I couldn’t reject that.  But it was enough to distract me and for him to see the whole painting.

“Why did you try to hide it?”

“I didn’t try on purpose.”

“So it was by accident?”  He poked at my logic, still staring all over my painting.  It was like he couldn’t draw his eyes away.  Mesmerized, I watched him look up close at every corner, his nose almost wiping away my paint.  It was a really close shave as I pulled him gently away.

“If you want to keep being nosy and just plain old Nate, do it as far away from my painting as possible.”

 

We sat there until class began.  He was silent for once, his eyes wide in awe.  I’m not sure why I didn’t object to him being there even though Ms Smith expected me to not let anyone else in.   Yet the sandwich he brought wasn’t half bad.

“What’s so shocking about my painting?”

“Nothing!” He said startled, spinning his big, wide eyes at me.  “It’s just really perfect.”  In one second, I saw the belief in his eyes.  He believed everything he was saying.  He actually liked my painting.  And I could hardly believe it.

I stood and walked over to the rubbish bin.  I’ve known Nate for ten years.  Of course, when we first met, we were the same height, same build, just different ethnicity.  He was popular, and I was, well, not unpopular, but definitely socially awkward.  I remember the feeling of watching my acquaintances taking part with enthusiasm, the extracurricular activities.  It wasn’t that I watched from around the corner, but more like I watched from the side, learning early how to mask my discomfort.  I just watched silently, taking on the image of a shy girl.  It wasn’t hard, even though I wanted to scream out loud.  But I couldn’t take rejection, so I never asked.  Every time though, it was always Nate who noticed.  And he would drag me around, while I batted him away, fending him off whenever I could, mostly embarrassed that he even noticed in the first place.  Then mum came to pick me up.  He never knew why I ignored him.

Nate was that funny guy, after all, who never took ‘no’ for an answer.  I think I used to like him.  Until he made me hate him.  Not everyone in this world wanted to be “one with the others”.  I didn’t want to be one with the others.  I just wanted to be able to go home and relax.

“It’s not that great,” I said instead, turning back to him.  “It’s just a painting.”  And then my class started arriving.   I opened the door.

When I looked back at Nate, he was just staring at me.  I had no response.

“June! There you are!”  Enna engulfed me in her bony embrace.  Yeah she loved me.  Just like Nicki.  Just like my best friends should.  But why did I feel uncomfortable?  I shivered unwittingly.

“Whoa, calm down En!  I just came here to—” I’d forgotten to cover my painting, but when I turned, it seemed that someone – no, not someone I think as find those big eyes in the crowd of my peers – had covered it for me.  “—Finish a painting.”  I finished surprised at myself.

“Is it under there?”  She pointed to where it was and I nodded.  “Well, I can’t wait to see it!”

“Yeah…” It really had meant to be a surprise.  “Wanna see it now?”

She looked surprised.  A moment before, I was sure she had narrowed her eyes, trying to gauge my mood.  She knew what it was like for me to talk to Nate.  “Really??”

“Yeah.”  I pull the cloth back.

 

The end of the day is always the same.  Up until recently, I just went home, in the direction that was opposite to the way that all my friends went.  And it was normally a peaceful ride on the bus.  Every so often Enna would come my way to visit her aunt.  Today was not one of those days.  Today, Nate was on my bus.  Like he was, every day.  But this was the first time I bothered to look up at them.

They were, as you could probably ascribe the term, “the popular group”, only, they were friends with everyone, even me, and they were nice.  They were the kinds of people everyone got along with, and they were also the ones the teachers picked for SRC or representing the school on various singular occasions.  I didn’t mind them so much.  They were a pretty big group.  Nate and Leslie were the centre.  The golden couple who were not actually a couple, were the sole focus of everyone else.  I suppose it was because Nate was funny and Leslie was easy going about everything.

I watched them as they flirted.  I watched as the others joined in gossiping about who knows what about every single person in our year.  And I watched as Nate brushed off Leslie’s advances turning them into something else.  What a riot.  It was none too soon when my stop came and I could shove off.

Hauling my bag over my shoulder, I pushed my way through the crowd of bored students, and out the door.  It was always a trial, since I was petite.  But I’d gotten used to it. Just like I’d gotten used to being different.

“June! Wait!”  I turned to find Nate hopping off the bus as well.  I stared at him.  Partly surprised.  Partly happy?

“Nate.”

 

Leslie had been my first friend.  Hard to believe when we were walking in different circles, isn’t it?  But it’s true.  She loved pigtails, was pretty cute and had a way with people and opinions in general.  She liked being with me though and we’d spent countless hours just playing with Kelly dolls and gathering our own boxes that we converted into dollhouses.  We made up stories and shared gossip.  But it was all child’s play, and somewhere along the way, I switched schools, met Nate, and then, ended up going to the same highschool as Leslie.  It was like fate, and judging by their similarities, I knew soon enough that I could not hang around them anymore.  I couldn’t share what they could share.  I didn’t have the ability to sit around the table, share a fun luncheon and pretend I was one of them.  And I walked away.  I ignored them all through summer, and when the next year began, I made friends with Nicki and Enna.  Both of whom had been in the class next door the previous year.

“Where’s your house?”  Asked Nate after several minutes walking.

“Is that any of your business?”  I snap.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said over me, as cheerful as the cat that steals the tuna we leave outside.  “I know where you live.”

He began walking ahead of me.  Leading, without a care, just like always.  I really hated his teasing.  I know he didn’t mean anything when he said he knew where I lived.  But I can’t help but remember when we were younger and he came over just because he could and because mum wasn’t around.  She didn’t come home, but I freaked out so much, and when he realised how uncomfortable, for once, he apologised seeing that his joke went too far.

We stopped in front of the block of apartments where I lived.  And we stared.  My balcony was visible from where we were standing.  There was no clear sign of anyone living there, since nothing was visible.  No clothing line, no old bike that I knew was squashed in one corner.  Not even the wooden boxes that were stacked next to the bike.  If it was a weekend, then there would be clothes hanging across the balcony.

“You know, I miss having you around shorty.  I don’t see why you have to hang around at home all the time.  You can still party with us.  Leslie misses you too.”

I scoffed.  “Leslie does not miss me.”  Leslie stuck her nose up and continued doing what she liked, including being nice to me in front of others, then ignoring me when they looked away.

“She does.” He looked at me pointedly.  “If you didn’t ditch us with those weird thoughts of yours, we would have been fine.  We could have stayed together.  It’s just fact.”

“Yeah,” I said sadly.   I catch his eyes, “But I couldn’t stay.  Don’t talk like you know everything Nate.  You know nothing.”

“You know, you could always just say it.” I faltered.  I really hated when Nate was serious.  Serious didn’t suit him especially when he was so direct and so honest.  It was hard to tell that he had something to hide as well.  He had no right to talk.

“Oh shove off Nate, what the bloody hell do you know about me?”

“More than Nicki and Enna do!  Just as I know more than the girls you hung out with before N and E, and the girls before that.  Of anyone, I know you better than them.  So why can’t you be honest with me?”

“Don’t badmouth my friends Nate, and I like Nicki and Enna.  For once they accept me for who I am, acknowledge that I don’t do much, and sympathise.  I don’t want to run and ditch anymore Nate.  Can’t you just let me be friends with Nicki and Enna?”

I could see “no” forming on his lips.

“No! Nate No! I’m not the same.  I’m not the same.  I’m born different!”

We could have stayed there forever, pondering my exclamation.  But we didn’t have forever.  We only had today.  If the sky turned to water, he wouldn’t walk away.  Nate would stay, I knew that.  In his mind, we were friends.  In mine, I’d severed the tie.  It flapped in the wind.

“Good bye Nate.”

I walked away from him.  I walked away, just like before.  These things, ties, they are all the same, they can be tied, they can be broken.  It all depended on the people, if they were willing, a tie can last forever.

Mum wasn’t home yet.  I dumped my bag in my room, pulled out notes, grabbed a cup of water and sat back on the couch.  Just like I did after school every day.  At home I wasn’t really anything particular.  Just June Wong, hard working, high scoring daughter of Fiona Wong, who just couldn’t get into a better school than the one she was currently attending.  But June at school didn’t care about stuff like that.  If she cared, she would have been very disappointed in herself.  She’s a Wong—Fiona Wong’s daughter, and she had expectations.  Like she’d said earlier to her childhood friend, “I’m born different”.

My expectations are different.  My wants.  Everything.  I’m not Nate.  I’m not Leslie.  I can’t pretend like I don’t have those expectations and can do what they can.  That would just be a lie.

 

Orianna of Time.

 

Cherry blossoms drifted, floating and fluttering to the hard-packed land.  They cover the ground like pink snow in spring, building up a fortress, setting a backdrop for the girl lying in the centre of the field.  When she wakes, it’s with a kiss on her lips.  Fury and desire burn through her.  She needs the warmth that draws her upwards with need in her veins.  Her fingers run through his hair, and her thin arms cling to his body.  She couldn’t stop.  She couldn’t let go.  Falling apart, she felt, would be inevitable if she did.  Sensing her need, this warm body did not let her go.  And she is saved.  In her head, she asks herself, “What am I doing?” She knows this is the question she should be asking.  But unlike before, she did not know the answer this time.

 

“Orianna!”  Her mother called.  “Come darling, come.”  The little girl dropped her makeshift sword one that was a essentially a stick cut from the rose bush, plucked of its thorns, by her, and transformed purely for the purpose of poking and prodding her nurse.  She was sometimes, such a wicked child, yet the Queen Mother, would have her transformed, when the time came, into her darling beautiful Princess.

“Mother has a new dress for you.”  The Queen’s voice was listless, and seeming cold, she pulled her dark cloak around herself.  Orianna didn’t complain about wearing the dress her mother gave her, hardly feeling cold at all, and absolutely dying to go back to playing, but she did wonder what she was doing sitting there while her mother hardly paid attention to her.

 

Orianna followed the man in green.  She walked where he walked, and watched as he grew.  By some power, he coaxed the growth of the land.  There was not a rose that would not bloom for him.  There was not a seedling that couldn’t be found.  There was nothing that would not heed his deepest wish.  He was a man with power, honesty, kindness and spirit but mostly, Orianna noticed, he had love.  Had he ever loved anyone?  She wondered if he was ever loved before, cherished to the point where he was constrained by the very bonds he had accepted, by nature or by choice.

She knew nothing of this man.  And he knew nothing of her, except that he had taken her along in his stride, like a chick and its mother, clucking around, not really looking for anything in particular except for maybe something tasty.  But it seemed only he found the food.  Orianna looked everywhere, but she could never find what he could.  Perhaps it was because she was human.

 

Mother dressed her hair.  It was clumsy and untamed, but no one within the vicinity dared to breathe a word.  Pinned up, Orianna’s dark curls cascaded down her back, showcasing beauty, length and its dark richness.  She patted Orianna’s head when she was done, smiling wistfully to herself before turning away.  She fanned herself as though she’d been working hard and she even wore a peaceful ‘I’m satisfied’ look on her face.  The servants though, clamoured around Orianna the moment the Queen left, sticking pins in her hair to hold the shape.  They did no more however for fear of facing the ferocity of the Queen.

For the festival, Orianna was dressed in a pink, purple and violet confection with her arms wrapped in gold and her torso in gold chain.  It seemed heavy for her ten year old frame.  Around her forehead, they draped the lamb headdress, weighed down with sapphires and gold, and clipped it tightly.  They told her again how fine her hands were, how beautiful her bone structure was, how slender her neck would become.  They never said she had strong knees.   It was moments like that when Orianna would stare out the window zoning out their gossiping voices. She would remember, when she was barely old enough to speak, her mother had told her about the spaces outside, and the spaces inside.  There was a world out there, that mother said, only monsters lived.  So Orianna never stepped out, though, once, just once, she’d put a toe out, to test the space on the balcony.  She’d regretted it ever since.  But she discovered that nothing happened to her at all.

 

Earth never stopped walking.  He was forever, endlessly guided like a river.  He had no direction.  He had no plan.  He was a child, moving with the wind, adapting, growing, but like Peter Pan, he never grew up completely.

Next to him, Orianna felt peace.

 

When Orianna was fifteen, her mother dressed her in white.  Orianna was the centre of the festival.  So she must look beautiful.  Her dress was long, thin, well cut and held together with gold.  Once again her forehead donned the lamb headdress.

At the height of the festival her mother joined her.  Her tyrian  dress was enviously embellished with the same gold that edged Orianna’s skirts.  But the difference, her mother’s beautiful cloth blended into aubergine at the edges.  Orianna was jealous, she hated the shade of white.

The Queen turned to smile at her, it was a dazzling, beautiful wide lipped, full teeth smile.  Orianna smiled in return, but somehow, her face muscles couldn’t replicate her mother’s smile.  Yet her mother still smiled.  In fact, she even took Orianna’s hand, holding it up, for everyone to see.  Especially for the King to see.  Orianna remembered the sizzling bright light that blinded her from seeing the crowd.  They were there.  She didn’t need the cheering to know just what illusion had shattered at that very moment.

 

Earth took her hand.  It was the first time he’d touched her since waking her.  When he’d changed her clothes, he’d commanded the vines to hide her, remove her armour and dress her.  It had been unusual, and as a man of his kind, he could feel more than she could.  Everything he touched, touched her and vice versa.  For him, it must have been excruciating.  Yet he stood back, and gave her privacy, lending her the earth woven gown of anemone.  Strangely Orianna had revelled in the power she seemed to hold over him.

Now he took her hand, and brought it to his lips.  That moment when her mother had taken her hand, she’d felt the arrow in her heart.  Her mother’s smile had stained her vision.  And then it’d blurred, faded, dissipated into nothingness.  When she woke next, Orianna was on a sacrificial bed, with a lamb’s head on her stomach, and her hands covered in blood.  She remembered the fear in her blood, the chill that set on her skin and then the acknowledgement of her mother’s smiles.  They were too beautiful indeed.

“What did you see, Princess?” Asked Earth.

“I saw my mother,” Orianna said looking into his molten amber eyes.

“Ah,” he sighed pulling away.  His smile was very ugly.  It was the kind that stayed with her.  She was afraid but he didn’t heed her even though she cried, “wait!” He disappeared.  Only her echo was kind to her.  Around her, the last of the blossoms fell to the ground.

 

For time, she wandered from the green grasslands that Earth favoured to the lands beyond where grass turned to dead twigs and a forest cast a taunting shadow.  She did not recognise when the seasons had changed.  Only that it had.  It was no longer spring, but winter.   Her anemone gown began wilting away as though they’d lost their lover.  Slow and slowly, they fell – peeling away, crumbling – dropping away like snow.  She didn’t recognise the trees.  She didn’t see the chestnut, or oak, pear or poplar of her homeland anywhere in sight.  It was so dark in the forest, if all of the flowers fell completely away from her skin, she wouldn’t know.  Nor would she be afraid that she was baring her all.

Yet, it seems nature forbid her.  As the last flower fell away, something cold, clasped her wrist, crawled up her arms, padded her back, and wrapped around her legs locking her in.  She moved her arms, and they moved with ease.  The tiny sound of metal against metal chimed in her ears.  Once before she’d donned something like this; once before, it had weighed heavier and felt stiffer than the one she wore now.

 

Her father, dressed in purple, made her bow at his feet.  He loved his daughter.  And his daughter loved him. But Orianna loved him as she loved her country.  On that day, she’d chosen to don a knight’s armour and carry a sword.  She’d knelt before her beloved father and pledged as a knight would pledge her love and honour to protect.

“Why?” He’d asked. At that time, Orianna did not understand the question that had been so plainly put to her.  When she thought back over it, she realised how obvious the answer was.  But she was just a girl, seven months ago, she’d just been a girl, shaken that her mother could engineer her death.  And that her father presumed Orianna had agreed, Orianna felt fury for the first time in her life.  Finest amongst fine wines, she’d worn armour and fought for her country in secret for no other reason but to appease her own strong desires, that is until the King found out.

When he looked at his daughter, her dark hair had been cut and tied back, and her skin a little darker he had planned to scold her, possibly disgrace her a little as punishment.  Yet, she was still the Kingdom’s most beautiful maidens.  Only her eyes had change.

Her father saw the frightening determination, the fear, in her eyes that he’d only seen once before.  He knew that the string was already drawing her down another path in the labyrinth.  Whatever the punishment he served, she would not be swayed.  Her path was not the one farthest from the minotaur.  It was the one leading to it.

 

“Who are you?”  Orianna asked the shadow-clothed woman standing behind her.  But the woman didn’t answer.  Like the darkness, she was silent.  There was something malignant about the forest and about the woman, what—she could not yet place.  But she did not want to find out.  So Orianna stretched her arms, testing the amour, and flexed her fingers, feeling the metal press against her wrist.  Accustomed and at ease again, she began walking.

“I’m searching for something.  Why am I here?”  She asked, turning, looking, but barely catching the tail end of the cobweb and lace dress.  The woman never answered Orianna’s questions.  She merely paced around her like Orianna paced around the shadow.  Every moment she glimpsed something of the thin other being.

“Why are you running from me?”  Orianna said provokingly, spinning sharply, hoping to catch the other.

“Why can’t I see you?”

“Why do you chase me?”

“What have I done wrong?” Ah, time froze then.  How words can remember.

 

A sword crashed down on her armour.  She felt it buckle ever so slightly.  What had she done wrong?  Where had she gone wrong?  She pushed her sword up, and braced.  She could hear the water rushing in the stream behind her.  It was rushing against the rocks, pounding the cliff edge.  The rapids were strong enough to kill a man just by merely slamming him into the cliff face or the many rocks that sat jaggedly beneath the water surface, but Orianna didn’t care.  At that point she didn’t.  All she wanted was to be free.  With a furious kick off her adversary, she launched herself into the torrent of water below oblivious to the fact that she could die.

 

A cold hand rested on Orianna’s chest.  Beneath, her metal casing shimmered in the darkness reacting to her touch.  She saw the face before her, pale under a black veil, she could not stare.  Like Earth before, Death was much more unbearable.

“What did I do?” Orianna whispered.  But the woman merely looked.  The woman in black was nothing.  She breathed nothing.  She felt nothing compared to Earth.  Death was unmoved.  And Orianna was at her mercy.  As her hand grew hotter on Orianna’s chest, the world shifted around them, the sound of rapids crashing against the rocks filled her ears, the smell of the sea, salty and fresh filled her every breath.  There was nowhere to go except down.

“What did I do?” She whispered.

Death pushed her.  It was merciless, but no different from a choice Orianna had made once before.  Coldness embraced her skin as she hurtled through the air towards the water, towards what seemed like a painful death.  She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the armour falling away.  It was almost unbearable.

The water hurt when she crashed into it.

The metal seemed to crush her body.

She couldn’t breathe.

The sand felt wet and cold under her hands.  She hadn’t realised where she’d crawled ashore.  Looking up she faced him and his famous blood sword.  No one lived after meeting him.  Not even her.

 

The water hurt when she crashed into it.  But naked and exposed, the water caressed, rather than maimed.  It wrapped itself around her body like a shield that encased warmth and life.  It pulsed as it washed her down the rapids along a stream of time that never ended.  She touched stone and pushed away in a rhythmic serenade, back and forth, gently rocking, until she was washed upon a shore.

On the shore a silk robe, the colour of gold, sat neatly folded on the hot sand as though it had been prepared for her.  She wrapped it around her feeling the silk slide along skin.  It was unmarked except for the scar along her neck.  A scar of sacrifice.  She touched it lightly.

The light dazzled her as she looked out onto the horizon.  For kilometres on end, there was nothing for her to see.  To her left there was a beach.  To her right, there was only endless water, stretching further than the eye could see.  It looked welcoming, she remembered the way it caressed her holding her close.  She wanted to feel it again.  She wanted that pulse again.

“You can’t do that.”

Orianna turned.  It was a woman dressed in gold.  Lips painted gold and draping gold lace for a dress that hardly cover her, yet, was on every centimetre of her body.  She sat, languishing, almost bored, in her chair, a golden throne made just for her.  Orianna was caught by the Lady’s gold-edged molten gold eyes.  They were lovelier and more intoxicating than Earth’s had been.

“Do you see the shells?”

“I see them,” replied Orianna cautiously.

“If you tried to count every one of them, you would be here for longer than eternity.”

“Longer than eternity?”  Orianna stepped closer.  “There can’t be that many.”

“I don’t know how many there are.”  The Lady stood.  She was undeniably beautiful, with pale caramel skin and long dark hair that rivalled Orianna’s.  Orianna watched as the Lady walked over the golden tiled floor to hourglass.  She must always be bored, Orianna thought looking around at the gold pillars that towered around all sides of her.

“The Hourglass of Time.”  She grabbed the golden handles of the towering glass time keeper.  “Must be turned when time ends, so time starts again.”

Orianna frowned, she was never a cryptic person, she preferred straight lines and curves, but not zigzags and knots.  The Lady’s words were simply presented, yet to Orianna they sounded complex.  Just like the hourglass in front of her.

“Time, flows left, flows right.  Goes up, goes down.  But it never fully ends.  It just,” she pulled the upper half of the hourglass down, “keeps,” without the presence of using much energy at all, “on going.  Time never stops.  It is endless.  Constant.  Present.”

Orianna watched as the sand shifted in the glass, sifting, turning, spiralling slowly and timelessly from top to bottom.  It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, all gold, yet Orianna did not understand what the Lady was saying.

“You asked a question, did you not?”  The Lady half-turned to look at me, her gown, shimmering with her every movement.  She was such a petite creature next to the hourglass that was half a palace high.  “Would you like to see the answer?”

She gestured for Orianna to stand next to her.  Orianna understood now, why the Lady had looked small next to the hourglass.  It was immense, towering over her, with swirling gold, glowing lightly.  How could the Lady be bored?

She looked into the sand in the hourglass as directed and saw something unimaginable.  Inside she had become a legend.  One told again and again in the present, and the future.  The story of a girl.  And then she saw something that if it were her future, she wouldn’t be afraid to pass on through the gold sand of time.  If it was her past, she wouldn’t be afraid to say hello to her former self.  Looking into that glass, she had no regrets, not one at all.

“I have been here for longer than eternity,” said Time as Orianna considered her.  “There are over a thousand shells on the beach and counting.  They come, go, taken by the sea, and returned when they have aged beyond their time.  I do not know how you feel.  I am Time.  I am like Earth and Death before you, I am immortal.  Earth is love, growth and youth, Death is the cold end, and I am chance and rebirth.”

Time held her hand out to Orianna.  “What did you do that was so wrong?  You’re just a girl.  What has past, shall not repeat again.”

Orianna, knowing her fate took the Lady’s hand and stepped into the hourglass.  Returned to time’s flow she would live again.

 

Related Works:

The Lady of Time

The Woman In Black

 

The Drug.

 

She turns the packet in her hand, looking at its poisonous white innards.  It was such a temptation, an exit to her problems, a chance to hide from the rain of the crumbling world around her.  Just take it!  Her mind told her.  So easy to consider.  But it was something…she may never come back.

 

Hope.

There is hope it seems….

He looks up, the tear that had once slid down his cheek now slid up, slowly and disbelievingly.  His blue eyes looked up to the heavens, as clear as the water that pooled around him.  The sky was parting above him.  Opening its pillow soft folds like the ribbons of icing on top of a cake being pushed against its grain.

All around him the world was crying backwards.  Raining upside down.  Returning life’s drink to its giver, creator, maker.  All the while, the girl who lay where he knelt remained as still as a carving.

His hand lay on her chest, the other supporting him as he leant back in undisguised awe.

Not so long ago he had her in his arms, alive, breathing.   They’d been drenched from swimming in the lake.  He’d had his arms around her waist, her small waist, and his forehead against his.  She was his love, his one and only.  Not beautiful, not ugly, but her heart as pure as gold.  The way she looked up at him with those brown eyes, set in a face not remarkable at all.  But there she was, looking at him, sharing his breath, breathing with him, all while they were in the water.

It was sin for him to be this way.  He was her guardian.  Her protector, and yet, through sheer coincidence and much protection, he had fallen in love with her.  His sweet angel.  His hands held her cheeks, and brushed away her tears.

He had whispered, “You’re mine.”  Possession had never been the intention, he hadn’t known that love could be possessive.  It was raw to him.  New to him, but he liked it.  He liked her, he liked everything that said her.  Did they, they who were his masters say that he should not, cannot fall in love?  Was he not an angel of goodness?  Did he not do everything when asked?

He held her close and said, “I love you.”

They sat what felt like hours in the day.  The sun beat down on their fair skins but neither of them had cared.  Just like she didn’t care that her dress was soaked, or that he was shirtless.  She hadn’t cared.  What she’d cared about were his wings.

Great arches of whiteness that extended from his shoulders.  They had wrapped around them in the water.

The water didn’t ripple.  It wasn’t cold either.

His hand was always much bigger than hers and he always enjoyed catching her small hands.

She’d known always that they weren’t destined to be happy.  They love she’d said was destined to be a tragedy, if they didn’t stop.  But in the water, she’d looked up at him with those eyes and she knows, just as he knows that they could never be a part.  They loved each other.  He knew it was better to stop this now.

“We’ll always be together,” she said, even though the knowledge was in her eyes.  He knew that she couldn’t be selfish.  She was always altruistic, it was why she was given a guardian angel in the first place.

“But you are my guardian angel.  I cannot compromise your duty, as you cannot compromise mine.”

Even as she said it, he could feel his blessing-given heart breaking.  Did his master not want his warrior guardians to be happy too? Was he selfish for thinking so?  He held her small shoulders.  And ran circles with his thumbs.

There was never a moment more where he felt so selfish.  He was an angel, an angel of the deity, but also, he was a guardian angel.  His duty was to protect.  His path was not love.  But here she was.

Was true love selfish?

“I’m thinking of communing with him to change my guardian angel.”

The world from below his feet then.  He didn’t want to lose his duty.  But the Master would give her what she asked, then call him into question.

But he was always watching.

The Master had always asked for hope from his guardian angels.  He had always said that hope is what they should give, if there was anything ever to be given.

But he could not give hope to her.  He knew as she knew that they needed the master’s blessing.  But the Master would not give his guardian angel a blessing if his guardian angel was the one to blame.  She was the golden girl.  Pure and simple.

She had needed a guardian not a lover. And he had failed her.  Why was that wrong?

[I wrote this story a long time ago, and reading over it, I find it questions something others might find either offensive or disagreeable, sooooo I’m sorry if  I do offend someone because it might infer religion and religious views. Please don’t take it personally, I just wanted write an innocent story about a girl and her protector who promises to protect eternally, yet in the end, cannot.  I wanted to write a story about reality, the ups and downs.  I hope you enjoyed it. ]

Winter Sunshine.

 

Palely cool against my skin, I am warmed, by the sun that has little shine.  It’s just one moment, a break within the downpours of winter that soaked the aged and worn roads.  I blink at the brightness, shiver at the coolness, and wrap myself just a little tighter.  But still there’s beauty in coldness.

 

Autumn Darkness.

 

The sky darkens earlier, and the rain pours more frequently.  The sun shines and moods fade easily.  Going to work, going to uni, walking down that empty lane all seems hours longer, kilometres further than usual.  How odd, how odd company can be, to make the darkness fade.  It brightens the day with warm light.

 

Like a Friend. ‘The Diamond of Truth’ Part Seven.

First of all, it’s unbelievable of me that I forgot about this series.  And when I looked back through all my blog material, I was like, omg~!  So I am going to finish it.  It is completely unacceptable that I stopped this abruptly.  SO here are the six other parts:

Like a Diamond.  Part One.

Like a Fire.  Part Two.

Like a Storm.  Part Three.

Like a Breeze.  Part Four.

Like a Light.  Part Five.

Like a Memory.  Part Six.

 

And in continuation here is Part Seven, at long last, hopefully you enjoy!  If there are any inconsistencies (let me know!!!) although I made sure there weren’t.  But I might have missed something.

 

Like a Friend.

What was her father doing?  Her head was aching now.  But Fel had to find him.  They couldn’t stay here anymore.  She turned back pulling the thin shawl around her body, up and around her head.  It had been a long time since she’d felt like this.  When had it been?  Was it before meeting Dallas?  It must have been.  There was not a moment after she’d met Dallas that she remembered anything pleasant between her and Gevrid beside the odd moment or two where he helped her.  But those were rare, not with his position as Captain, he couldn’t do anything more.

She stopped in an alcove for a breather.  Her head ached.  Her hands felt clammy against the cold concrete wall.  And she took that moment to take a seat.  She hugged herself, pulling her knees to herself.  There, she breathed.  In and out, the air seeped into her soul reinvigorating her heart.  And she stood again.

As she strode out of the alcove, she felt a shift, a ripple through the air, and the diamond burned against her chest.  She jerked the shawl away and looked at the glowing diamond.  Feelling eyes on her, she looked to the left and found the younger Felicity staring at her.  On her chest, her own diamond reacted.  And Fel moved to moved, jerked forward by surprise.  But time shifted and Fel was no longer looking at Felicity but at someone else.  Someone across time and space, who could see her, but if he tried to touch her, he would only grab air, doomed to wonder if she was dead or not.

“Felicity,” He said in shock.

“Gevrid,” she replied, the faint touch of water in her eyes.

They stared at each other.  The air shimmered between them, but it didn’t feel muggy and suffocating like most hot air.  Instead it felt cool, gentle, and beautiful.

“I forgot,” she said.

“Forgot what?”  He said confused.  “When did you get back?” Fel walked up to him, reaching out to touch him.  Through time, he felt so alive, so warm.  And he was startled.  As startled as Fel.  But he wouldn’t show it.  He wouldn’t tell Fel that he was as startled as Fel.  Fel just knew.  Because she always knew.

“I forgot us.”  A stray tear, crystal blue, slipped down her cheek.  She wasn’t clutching her head anymore.  There was no more pain, no more ache.  Just clear white snow blanketing her heart and mind.

“Fel?”  He was suddenly awake, and not under a daze.  Had he always been under a daze with her?  He reached up to touch her, but like the effects of time, she was in the past, a ghost of her former self, and therefore, transient to him.  “Fel?  Fel, where are you?  This isn’t your ghost is it?”  He started to panic.

“Gevrid,” she’d said it with an unintentional smile.  She stroked his cheek, relieved.  “Gevrid.  Don’t worry I’ll be back soon.”

“Fel!”  He screamed, but he was already fading.  The diamond on her chest, cooled, and slowly, slowly, the headache returned.

As he faded, Fel wondered why she wanted him to hold her, caress her, touch her hair and her skin the why no one else was allowed to.  Memories came back to her, little things she forgot suddenly seemed as bright as the sun.  She remembered where she lost the hanky Gevrid gave her to wipe her eyes.  Looking forward, she saw herself.  The younger Felicity was staring with the kind of eyes that would forget later on.

The young Felicity looked at Fel with big wide eyes.  She was so full of awe, Fel wondered if Felicity had even noticed the diamond on her chest.  If she had, it was lost under the sea of grief, fear and awe.

“Who are you?” Said Felicity.

“Just a dream,” said Fel.  Fel took a shaky step forward, touched the little girl on the head and walked away.  As she passed the little girl, she whispered, “Grow and love, live as you want, don’t hold back.”  And just as quietly as she came, she left, leaving nothing but a whisper of an impression in the young girl’s mind.  Fel knew, as living proof, that Felicity wouldn’t remember the face of the woman who said those words that had drawn her away to Dallas in the first place.  Felicity would only remember the words.

She couldn’t find her heart as she ran looking for her father.  There was nowhere for that elusive beating centre to hide in her body, but it wasn’t just a “thing”, it was a raging river of abstract notions such as “love” and “hate”.  It was calm for contentment and violent when upset.  It was unrestrained, abundant, almost overflowing on occasions.  Fel was hurt.  It ached where it had been passionate, in the times she’d needed to feel passion the most, it had been unrestrained and rebellious.   Now, now the pain was overreaching, rushing down the river without any bounds, there didn’t seem like a moment it would let up.

Her father was talking to her mother.  Fel doubted her mother knew it was him from the future.  But her father had aged harshly and his lines were deeper.  He slouched now, when he walked, but he was still proud.  And Fel thought, that must what her mother was seeing.  Because her mother didn’t even shrink away.  And her father was being so gentle to her.  He must have reverted to his younger self.

“Father.” He turned slightly at the faint sound of her voice.  This man she was seeing, was the man who should be running the kingdom.  Not the king at the moment, not the one who’d pushed her to the edge, and taught her the meaning of passion.

But her father still had a long way to go, for he was not the friend she had before, for Gevrid was a friend she had lost, and for the fact that she cared.  Her father was more like what a king should be.

We Will Win.

 

They are waiting by my side, breathing as I breathe, waiting as I am.  We wait under the shadows, knowing that we have reached the end.  We don’t care though.  Because we hear her voice ringing out over the arena, cheering us on, loud and proud.  She is our salvation.  For her, we will win.

 

Going to Uni.

 

I take my seat, drink my coffee, feel invigorated.  I’m ready.  The lecturer begins talking.  It’s not long before my eyes droop.  I jerk up. I’m awake.  Seriously.  But they keep talking, as expected.  Still, the coffee can’t fight my desire to doze.  I jerk up again.  It’s interesting, really, just boring to listen to.

 

I Came Across The Sea.

I came across the sea with nothing in my mind,

Except that I would find you.

I didn’t know how,

I didn’t know where,

All I knew you were here,

Where the world was prospering,

And the gold was flowing.

Why didn’t you tell me to come?

Why didn’t you come home?

Why were your letters,

Briefer,

And briefer,

With each passing letter?

Do I know?

I think I know.

I think deep down,

I already felt,

The breaking,

Severing,

Disintegrating,

Tie that bound us together.

I think,

I knew,

The day and month,

When I had not received a word,

Or a telegram,

A passing desire,

Or that you’re longing for me,

That you didn’t love me anymore.

I guess you shouldn’t have gone,

I guess I should have come,

Rather than stay in my comfort zone,

Knowing that we were in love,

Knowing that your heart was still mine,

And mine alone.

But it was never mine,

Was it?

I was just someone you married,

For the sake of convenience,

And I can’t even complain,

When you’re with another woman,

That you should love me,

And not her,

Because we both knew,

This is how it was.

And this,

Is how I found you,

Because you are striking,

In that kind of way.

You may have loved me once,

Or thought I was okay,

But now you don’t

Think

Or feel

What you should

Anymore.

If you did feel

One ounce of guilt,

It barely showed

On your face,

To you,

I was just a convenience,

Who shouldn’t have been there at all.

Yet, I opened your door,

At the discretion of the man,

Who’d led me there,

Out of pity,

Most likely.

Out of lust,

Possibly.

Because I know,

I am not hideous to look at,

Nor is my figure not undesirable,

It is just you who can’t look at me,

And love me more than lust.

You let that man guide me,

Right to the door,

Of your betrayal.

I hope you have a good life,

In the arms of that scandalous woman,

When I divorce you,

And take what’s mine,

I hope you have a good life,

Because it’s your name,

That’s ruined now.

Not mine.

I would never be so stupid,

Knowing this would be how it turned out.

Sometimes,

I wish,

I had not come across the see,

In search of a man,

Who was supposed to be my husband,

Searching for a fortune,

To add to what we had.

I wish,

I had been stronger,

To marry someone I loved,

And not someone for convenience.

 

 

Blue and Her Multicoloured Dresses.

Her name was Blue,

Dressed in pink,

She felt ridiculous.

Not long ago,

She recognised

What blue was,

And she looked at her clothes.

Yet she was the child

And they were the adults,

Who could blame her

For not getting answers?

Her mothered laughed

When she asked

“Why am I in pink

When my name is Blue?”

And Her mother said,

“Because it suits you,”

With little more than a smile.

But still she wasn’t pleased,

Because she was a child

Who wanted some answers.

In the light of her early years,

She tried not to think about it,

Yet on her fifth birthday,

Her mother dressed her in green,

Again Blue frowned,

Because it seemed,

This was not her colour.

“Mummy, Why am I in green

When my name is Blue?”

And her mother just said,

“It’s a pretty colour”

And Blue just pouted.

She was starting to hate

Any colour that

Wasn’t “Blue”

Her friends laughed,

But she pouted.

On her tenth birthday,

Her mother gave her a purple dress,

With a smile,

And again she pouted.

“Mummy!”

She said sweetly,

“Why am I in purple

And not Blue!?”

“Because darling,

Purple is fashionable.”

Blue was not pleased.

Blue blew steam,

Large puffs

Out of her small ears,

But still she wore the dress

Because it had a nice design.

She wasn’t unhappy, though.

And Blue grew up,

Trying hard to fit in,

Even though,

Her name was odd.

On her fourteenth birthday,

She straightened her hair

For the very first time.

As she opened her early gift,

From her mother,

She found herself looking at,

Something bright red,

Nearly,

Though not quite,

Matching her own,

Auburn hair.

“Mummy!”

She demanded,

Feet stomping into the kitchen,

Hair flaring about,

Angrily.

“Why am I in red,

And not Blue?”

And her mother

Just said,

“Because you’re still too young,

To understand what it means,

To be Blue,

And to wear something else.”

Blue pouted even more,

So big was her pout,

Not even the layer

Of her first professionally

Done make up

Could hide the frown.

But somehow by the time

The party was over

She was no longer frowning,

But simply

Enjoying herself.

As she grew up,

Her hair grew longer

And more voluminous.

Her attitude,

Sharper and more unique,

As she chose what she wanted

Rather than what others wanted.

And she completely forgot,

Until her eighteenth birthday,

When she unwrapped her mother’s present,

Not really thinking of anything

In particular,

And found herself staring,

At the most elegant gown,

She had ever seen.

Pulling it out of the box,

She looked in awe

At the length of silk before her eyes.

When she put it on,

It was the right size,

And the right shape,

Pulling where it should,

Draping where it looked good.

In surprise,

She walked into her mother’s room,

And asked,

Breathlessly, she asked,

“Mother, why am I in blue,

And not some other colour?”

Her mother just smiled,

Touched her daughter’s cheek

And kissed her forehead.

“Darling, because I am not afraid anymore,

That you will choose because,

It was given to you,

And not because you wanted it,”

She held her hand,

“You have made me proud.”

And that is the story of Blue,

Who received a dress,

That was never her namesake,

Whose mother never gave her answers,

Until she grew up,

To understand,

The difference between her choice,

And her mother’s.

I Want To Play.

My fingers,

Light across the strings,

The music,

Plays in my ear,

My heart is wide open,

To the sounds of those near.

They listen,

To the music I play,

In conjunction,

With the song,

That we are playing.

I am engrossed,

In the song,

Of passion,

And love.

I am soaring in,

An endless love,

It’s heated with,

The taste of passion,

Trust,

Absurdness.

I can’t follow the rhythm,

That the music is taken,

It’s fast,

Competitive,

Un-denied,

Soaring.

And then it flies,

Like a kiss,

That’s warmer than the sun,

Than the feel of strong arms,

Than safety itself.

And then it stops.

We stop.

We breathe.

We watch.

The audience is waiting.

Their breath is held,

Anxious,

Impassioned.

Then we start again,

Gently at first,

Coaxingly,

Lovingly,

We bring our lovers together,

Playing time,

Playing differently,

Playing all in all.

It rises with love,

And soars with happiness,

Taking on life itself,

And then it drops,

Slowly,

Contentedly,

Until we are at the end.

And we play,

The final,

Single,

Lonely tune.

Just one half left,

Alone, but contented,

It waits at the side,

Counting the nights,

And the days,

Until the petal drops,

Landing on a grave.

And I play,

The final note,

Just as I wanted it,

Leaving it to hang,

In the air,

Long and lastingly.

Where Will We Meet?

 

I check my watch,

Tapping my feet,

Unable to stand still,

So I sat.

But I can’t seem to sit,

Because I can’t stop checking,

The time that passes on my watch.

Where will we meet?

I’d asked.

By the fountain,

You said.

And me,

Not wanting to prove,

That I have several,

Unmistakable,

Disbelieving,

And very stupid,

Insecurities about this,

Nodded,

And smiled,

Saying,

Sure,

Why not?

What a stupid thought,

That was,

To arrive,

Half an hour early,

I have to say,

I hate being late.

I have to say,

It was my fault,

I’m sure he would have come earlier,

If only I said so.

But I was too stubborn.

So this is my own fault,

For feeling anxious,

Waiting,

And,

Waiting,

Until,

Finally,

You show up.

I can tell,

From the shocked expression

On your face,

You didn’t expect me to be early,

Much less

Cold from waiting.

He says nothing,

But takes off his jacket,

And wrap it around my shoulders.

Where will we meet?

If I never asked that,

Then I guess this never would have happened,

I laugh,

I can’t believe it.

I’m so relieved.

Betrayal.

 

It’s easy to say, impossible.  To do so is a different fate.  But to admit it, is a great sacrifice.  It’s a spoken betrayal.  And there is nothing left to do, but to draw the knife.  She sat at the edge of the clock tower, her tool by her side.  She only had to jump.

 

The Game of War.

The game of war,

Is a deadly philosophy

That strategizes how

To take lives.

It is not a game,

That is played half-heartedly.

It is not a play to sit back,

And enjoy, leisurely.

Do you know the pain of war?

The suffering the comes,

After the victory has been won?

The pieces are put together,

But no in the same shape,

Or order,

It’s too hard,

To smooth the edges,

That have been too damaged,

To be,

Recognisable.

But yet,

The pieces fit,

Like it should be,

The damage,

Disguised as something else.

They call it the new world,

The new country,

The new land.

But how can it be,

Thriving with riches,

When the land is marked by,

The ever present,

Game of war.

But there is the art of war,

That is not meant to harm,

To maim,

To kill.

It is a philosophy,

To save lives,

Wherever possible

To gain the most,

Whenever possible.

But it gets misinterpreted,

And becomes,

The game of war.

It’s a terrible game,

Meant for the better,

And sometimes ends in the better,

If only,

It wasn’t the in between moments,

That remained

Like when the girl looks back,

Thinking she heard her lover’s voice.

Or when the mother stops cutting carrots,

Because she feels a shiver down her back.

Or when the baby cries,

And the mother doesn’t know why.

This is the game of war.

This is the pain,

Visible

And unseen.

Still, they play the game of war,

Playing with human lives.

It’s just a game to them,

A game of politics,

And hidden agendas,

For profit,

Not loss.

They want to gain,

As much as possible,

When they play,

The Game of War.

The Red Fish On The Mantel:

The red fish

Sat on the mantel piece,

A gift from husband to wife.

It has gold fins,

And big red eyes,

With red-gold scales,

On all sides.

The wife placed it facing the couch,

So that she could gaze

And admire

It’s red-gold beauty.

She had a penchant

For pretty

Beautiful things,

A penchant that was

Not limited to

Just objects and clothes.

One warm autumn night,

While the husband was away,

The wife comes out of,

Her wifely clothes,

To play with pretty,

Boys and pretty toys.

She’s a beautiful woman,

Who deserves beautiful things,

But a man whose loves her,

Deserves a little more.

Whether it’s despicable,

What he does,

When he’s away,

Watching

His wife’s betrayal,

While it’s in play.

His head falls,

Cupped in his hands,

As he tries to comtemplate,

His worst mistake.

But he can’t see,

What he did wrong,

If he had done anything wrong,

To her.

And he stands,

And throws,

In menacing anger,

The remote.

When he returns home,

She thinks nothing has changed,

And for a moment,

He thinks so too.

She doesn’t do anything,

Out of place,

She doesn’t around him,

As though she should be cautious,

She just leans up and kisses his cheek,

With all her love and warmth,

Just like always.

It had never seemed so bleak,

His beautiful, perfect marriage.

He should have realised,

That his wife,

Loved him for his beauty,

And because he gave her beautiful things,

Like the fish on the mantel,

Red,

Red-gold,

Golden.

To her,

He gives her one last gift,

Before leaving a sheaf of papers,

Lying on the dining room table,

For her to find.

He was not really hurt,

Just sad that

She was too fickle.

The next time he falls in love,

He hopes that,

He won’t need to buy

And give,

A fish that is red-gold,

With big,

Red eyes.

In Love.

Being in love,

Is like the summer breeze,

Warm,

Comfortable,

It brings a smile to your face.

It makes me want to touch you,

Caress your cheeks,

With everything I am.

It makes me want to kiss you,

And never, ever,

Stop kissing you.

But you fall away from me,

Drifting away,

Letting go of my hand.

Is this what being in love means?

That I will lose you,

When I hold you too close?

I don’t want to lose you,

Because I love you,

But do you love me?

I’m scared,

Hold me.

That’s what I’d say,

But I’m scared I’m too clingy.

Will you hate me?

That’s why I hate being in love,

But it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known.

Love me,

I say.

Love Me!

Love Me!

Tell me you love me too.

Tell me,

Because I want to cling onto you,

Show you my adoring affection,

My undying love,

I want to prove it to you.

I don’t want you looking anywhere but at me,

Is it because I’m jealous,

That I hold you closer?

Is it only me who wants to possess you?

Look only at me,

Feel free to have friends that are girls,

That are guys,

That are in between,

But only look at me.

I am clingy.

I am in love.

I can’t help it.

Do you love me?

Do you really love me?

I’m sorry.

Sorry for being clingy,

Sorry,

Sorry,

Sorry.

I can’t stop saying it.

Look at me,

Ah, I breathe,

You’re looking at me

But you’re not smiling.

I’m exasperating you,

You know it,

I know it,

But still you cup my cheeks,

And give me a little shake,

So that I feel a little dizzy,

But undoubtedly clearer,

And you say,

“Idiot, I am looking at you.”

You kiss me,

It’s a gentle kiss.

“I’m dating you.”

And I can’t help but cry,

Because he’s practically declared himself,

In words that are almost a confession,

That say everything I’ve been afraid of,

Yet he’s not done,

Because he then says,

“I. Love. You.”

And my tears just fall harder,

Making him feel flustered,

But making me feel so full,

Of that wonderful feeling,

That I knew, that came with,

Being in love.

We Met Under The Stars.

At the height of my career,

I took a walk under the stars.

My eyes were filled with wonder,

Of a life I could have known,

Carefree,

Untethered,

I could have walked a thousand miles.

We met under the stars,

On an unusually clear night,

When the world was spinning,

At a ferocious rate.

I felt hopeless,

Looking at the stars,

I wondered,

Where is the start?

But there you were,

Standing,

Looking,

Gazing at the stars.

They twinkled in your eyes,

Were the blush on your cheeks,

And I wondered,

How could you be so happy?

But you just smiled at me,

As if it was nothing in the world.

You took my hands,

Like I was your friend,

And wished good will on me.

It was not a blessing,

But a gift.

A present,

That,

In exchange,

Would mean I would never see you again.

Who are you?

Who I met under the stars,

And found my hope for the future.

But who are you?

To this you answered,

“Just the person you met under the stars,”

And I believed you.

Too bad I didn’t know,

That the first time I met my boss,

At a moment when I thought,

Just thought,

Wistfully and sadly,

That I would never see you again,

You appeared.

In front of my eyes,

You stood,

Looking hot,

And rather,

Dapper,

In a suit and tie,

Unlike the trackies you wore

Under the stars.

I never thought I’d see you again,

Much less,

In the workplace where I found joy again.

I never thought it would be because of you,

Who I met,

Under the stars.