I lay myself down in that quiet meadow that exists only within my mind. I rest back, against the soft, pillowy grass and I allow myself to keep. To become at one with the scene, the beautiful sunset, the sublimely coloured horizon; it is so glorious, and I know it’s only for me. I bask in the wonder, treating my eyes, my amazed orbs to swell and brighten as the light slowly changes, the atmosphere darkening, into the dusk of the afternoon. And I lay here waiting, for you to come soon. I lie in wait, for your presence, to keep me safe.
There is nothing to fear in this landscape, for I have created it all on my own, but I wish for you, I call for you, to visit at least, or perhaps to return here and decide to call this home. A land in which you and I can exist, with love and soft-spoken dexterity, our hands, their movements, clutching each other’s, are not at all amiss. We grasp our attentive and longing outstretched hands, linking also arm in arm. But, my love, you have not come, will you ever arrive?
My careful eyes watch for you, I know you won’t leave me alone for too long.
But in trots an arrogant fool, one who does not belong in my precious landscaped scene, nothing to compare with you, because he is too proud, he is too haughty, yet I am confused, do I pay attention to him or ignore him completely? After all, it seems far too rude to dismiss another, even though he seems rough and overly boisterous and showy. I am not in the practice of being rude, I dislike the practice and behaviour greatly. So, I make eye contact with this buffoon, who is lauding himself throughout my delicious scene, trampling on the flowery neighbourhood, and I, close to rolling my eyes, acknowledge him if but for only a few seconds. I do not want to encourage him, to have you feeling my eyes treating you as seconds.
Oh, how he prances, how he dances, before me, his masculinity screams for my attention, begs for it more and more, until I cannot help myself, I start to laugh, he’s amusing, and this encourages him some more. And then suddenly, you appear from the corner of my eye, from behind a dense bush, and your eyes scream betrayal; I cannot do anything but fumble: I wasn’t moved by him, I want to scream, I wasn’t moved at all, not a little. Yet my heart, how it now aches, at having hurt you in a manner unintended, I am filled with guilt, while the buffoon stands to attention, smiling widely, grinning with obvious pride bursting from inside. He guffaws at the problems he has advertently caused me through amusing and entertaining me with his wiles, and all the while he remains there, cocksure, boastful, pride-filled – of him I am reviled.
I reach for you, but it is too late, you tell me I have made my choice and it is time for you to dissipate. With tears forming in my eyes, you melt back into the horizon, never again to be seen, in this fantasy of mine, you are now gone. You were my only delicate and sweetened portion. I weep for you, but this buffoon has proven his method: a rapid and obvious sabotaging poison.
© 2019 Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.