Ace of hearts

The wind blown daughters of a century, they called themselves. They used to meet every Tuesday, in tweed and corduroy. Only the sturdy fabrics would do.

My mother would always go to these meetings in knots. And come back unwoven and frayed.

She used to tell us that passion was the thread of the universe.

That was before she came undone.

I write everything on post its now, and wear heavy cotton. A reminder to self to never venture to places between the sensible and the practical.
I stay home on Tuesdays, lock my door, and close the shutters.
But there is no story to this, no murder mystery that needs to be solved.
The simple truth is this, if you are playing to win, you better be sure you have the ace of hearts in your hand. Otherwise, it’s best you stay home.

Veins

I used to love her in the dark hours, when the rest of the world was sleeping. There we were, behind the dorm walls. The candles, burning down and dimly lit. The curves of her face, her gentle smell a mixture of an ocean breeze and soft flowers. Paradise in a concrete jungle and rusted pipes. Paint chips falling. Wax spilling.
Her story, I knew it as soon as I had courage to look into her eyes. It was there, hiding, ashamed, curious, unsure, but it was there.
My heart had never seen such passion and excitement. More than ever, I wanted to read her, study her, learn her language.
A glimpse of her could keep me elated all day. Floating between places. Dancing between thoughts. She was the world, and the world was magic and beautiful. I don’t remember the paths taken, the food tasted, or even the money spent. I do remember fireworks, soft blankets, and olive skin in candle light. Blue-greenish eyes in a cluster of stars.
Had I not always been a traveler of your waters? I lay anchor, hoping to stay. No maps could have prepared me for what was to come.
There was nothing written down.
The story, too long to capture. Lifetimes between the lines.
I visit her sometimes now, in the dark hours. There she is, standing by the wall. We play, we dance, we laugh, and we love. But then daylight comes, and she again, is a whisper gone.
I use to laugh at those people who would chase butterflies. Who would try to catch them and keep them in a jar. Those who would try to capture beauty for a moment. But I am not sure when I became one of them. Was I not steering this ship for shore? When did my sails become blankets to cover her soft skin and naked body? When did my compass become the beating of her heart?
I toss the pins away, and open the lid for air.
The stars have moved, our planets, changed. For a few moments we were star crossed. For a few moments you lifted your mirror, and I saw myself for the first time. Have I always looked that way?
I remember looking at you. Just looking at you. That was enough. Every instance of beauty, truth, and love, was wrapped up in that moment.
It’s been a lifetime since I have seen your face.
I got your notice the other day. I followed your instructions and pulled the anchor back aboard. My hands gripped the wet chain, soaked in an ocean of tears.
You tell me that the world has become divided.
You tell me that I no longer exist in the here and now, and that the drawbridge of the present is now closed.
I didn’t realize when I became a memory. I didn’t realize when I became the past. I didn’t realize that I was sailing in your veins and not your arteries.
Away from the heart, away.
I got the hint, and I have now lowered my flag. Sailing again into the dark hours.