Tempted into Wanting

“What matters in life is not what happens to you, but what you remember and how you remember it to tell the tale.” ~ Gabriel García Márquez

.
You hid behind Sweet Dreams
and a smuggled Desire, waiting
for hearts to tempt into wanting.

My eyes often noticed your face,
but my mind couldn’t see you—
I was too young (for the world)
and you were all wrong for me.

But…

…once upon a summery night,
while exhausted and not thinking
right, I touched your Solitude…
The length of it startled all I was.
One Hundred Years all alone?
I thought, took, read you mine.

I’ve kept you close ever since,
always loving you
in word and ink, learning wild
desires and real sweet dreams.

You’ll never be lonely, my love,
words of you dance on my tongue,
feeding old blood into new ink.

You are loved.

.
the wee notes…
– I read One Hundred Years of Solitude before I was a teenager. The book and I met at a beauty salon my mother frequented. The beautician had a rack full of serialized romance novels (Sweet Dreams, Silhouette, Desire) and enough out-of-date magazines to paper the Great Wall of China and thirteen midsize castles with very small windows.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, and to Poets United.


detail from the cover of
Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude
(Ilustraciones de Fabelo edition)
via

She’s So Full of Herself

I was going to bed and my stomach laughed at my presumptuous ways. So, I decided to stop trying to dream with my eyes closed, and chose to spend time leafing through bookish dreams instead—books never laugh at me (too loudly *cough*).

Cinderella Skeleton, by Robert D. San Souci, came first. This Cinderella story makes more sense to me than most. I mean, as the picture below suggests, Prince Charming is obviously a forensic anthropologist with a thing for women’s bones… and shoes, which completely explains why he can identify his soulmate by a dismembered limb and not, for instance, by the depth of her conversation or unforgettable eye sockets.

I left the fairy tale to visit The Devil’s Rose, by BROM. As always, his words and art are dark and delicious. This particular book includes very few images with flesh on them, so I decided to show you this one… Well, part of it, since the rest is drenched in blood, and on the way to also being defleshed—dearest BROM delights in creepy.

Speaking of bloody and creepy and nailed, my delicious Piano Man got me a copy of Harlequin Valentine, written by Neil Gaiman and illustrated by John Bolton. Yep, he loves me that much… Nothing says I love you like Gaiman, nails and bloody hearts.

And because everything deserves loving and cuddling, I read a few poems from The Sex Lives of Monsters, by Helen Marshall. It was a present from Rommy—it seems that she, too, knows me. I must remember to ask her how long it took her to realize that I’m extremely fond of giant eyeballs, ribcages, spines and dreamcatchers.

After three hours of book-dreaming, my stomach was still being a royal bastard. So, I walked to the terrace to talk to my plants in the dark… just to find out that the moon was completely full of herself, and the darkness had to dance in the shadows…

The dark and the moon playing their natural games made me smile. With a grin on my tired face, I went inside to collect some flower petals I had been drying for a day or 3, and offered them to the moon. She didn’t wink in appreciation or anything, but my tummy was finally ready to let me sleep.

How do you capture sleep when it does not want to play, my Wicked Luvs?