Dust and Dreams-A Journey
Herstory (Love)
Herstory
I met him last evening,
Not understanding why my hands were shaking,
Feeling uncertain and meek,
Yet I ensured my make-up was straight first.
He appeared at the door, smelling of Obsession cologne.
We stood there uncertainly,
Making small talk to bridge the gap,
That had begun months earlier.
I followed him to his bedroom, and we sat awkwardly.
He asked if he could give me something.
He leaned to kiss me, and in spite of myself,
I delved into his hair with my hands.
We decided to give this story proper closure,
Uniting one last time.
For once I did not worry about my thighs or question what
I felt.
My tears continued to fall, silent in the moonlight.
I touch his face, noticing the new smile lines,
Beneath his eyes,
Studying this man I was with,
Twitching with nostalgia and regret.
I felt sixteen again, watching the Spring bird age,
In front of me,
Diving from the sky,
Vainly attempting former heights.
He lay there staring at the ceiling,
Arms behind his neck, framing the lump
That had formed in his throat.
He hoped I would not notice the wetness of his lashes,
But the starlight told his tale.
I simply held my arms out to him,
Wanting to hold him as a mother holds a child.
Thoughts of our unfinished life flashed through my mind;
The altar we were never to stand before,
The perfect infant, that would never touch my embrace.
The were as a waterfall, unhalting,
And I knew that it was time.
I embraced him hard, my heart breaking,
And inhaled the smell of his skin one last time.
His tears now mingled with mine.
I watched his front door close, seeing me safely into the car,
And for a final time glimpsed his silhouette,
Feeling an overwhelming sense of loss.
Only when I turned the corner, onto the main road,
Would I allow the tears to flow freely.
I drove on, whispering goodbye, the tears blinding now....
2002
Cristine M. DiMario
I met him last evening,
Not understanding why my hands were shaking,
Feeling uncertain and meek,
Yet I ensured my make-up was straight first.
He appeared at the door, smelling of Obsession cologne.
We stood there uncertainly,
Making small talk to bridge the gap,
That had begun months earlier.
I followed him to his bedroom, and we sat awkwardly.
He asked if he could give me something.
He leaned to kiss me, and in spite of myself,
I delved into his hair with my hands.
We decided to give this story proper closure,
Uniting one last time.
For once I did not worry about my thighs or question what
I felt.
My tears continued to fall, silent in the moonlight.
I touch his face, noticing the new smile lines,
Beneath his eyes,
Studying this man I was with,
Twitching with nostalgia and regret.
I felt sixteen again, watching the Spring bird age,
In front of me,
Diving from the sky,
Vainly attempting former heights.
He lay there staring at the ceiling,
Arms behind his neck, framing the lump
That had formed in his throat.
He hoped I would not notice the wetness of his lashes,
But the starlight told his tale.
I simply held my arms out to him,
Wanting to hold him as a mother holds a child.
Thoughts of our unfinished life flashed through my mind;
The altar we were never to stand before,
The perfect infant, that would never touch my embrace.
The were as a waterfall, unhalting,
And I knew that it was time.
I embraced him hard, my heart breaking,
And inhaled the smell of his skin one last time.
His tears now mingled with mine.
I watched his front door close, seeing me safely into the car,
And for a final time glimpsed his silhouette,
Feeling an overwhelming sense of loss.
Only when I turned the corner, onto the main road,
Would I allow the tears to flow freely.
I drove on, whispering goodbye, the tears blinding now....
2002
Cristine M. DiMario
