I wake up late because last night we got into the gin, though it wasn’t the gin so much as the conversation which blossomed forth. Juniper and trading secrets. Palms against flesh and kisses that somehow quench as they leave you thirsty for more. There is an effortlessness about you I wish I could inhabit. Crawl inside, live inside, never leave behind. I know you think I could do it but don’t on purpose, as if flicking off a switch. I promise you that if it were so easy I’d have done it decades ago.
In the dimness of morning haze, I pour my coffee and stare out the window into the garden. In the darkness, I can just make out the white cuts of feather on a single blue jay which is perched upon the handcrafted bench, facing the roses. Its long pointed tail stretches itself all the way out, up and down in a startled motion, before he flits off under a low bush. There are creatures of night and creatures of dawn and for the life of me I swear I’m one when I could just as surely be the other.
Nested in blankets and pillows in an upstairs room, I grab my laptop and begin to type a thing I don’t see coming but let unfold anyway. Writing is a bit like improv. You just get in there and say a thing and something else related until you look back to find you’ve strung a piece together like a dangle of party lights, the ones which lit up your backyard when you were a kid. Pink and orange and yellow together were always my favorite. Summer grass and shadow puppets. Knees in the dirt and eyes wide beneath the stars. Lanterns, swimming pools, fireflies. How can it all sail by so quickly. These are the thoughts of a woman of such an age as mine.
In the back of my mind is the idea of you. You are faceless, though not without form. A beautiful, majestic form, like something cloaked in the darkness of a thousand exotic nights. I try to write but my fingers think only of typing you into being. My fingers breathing into your lungs and your body even now. My breath at the parting of wherever you come from, far beyond the deadness of this ordinary place. Dawn cascading her ribbons of soft creamy light across my skin.
There is something about you I don’t think you even know is there but it wraps itself around me, flutters itself through me like the winged expression of a sensation forbidden, the pulsing threat of the catastrophic truth of it. Its existence, a burning impossible to survive. Something which cannot help itself but to rise, up and up higher and higher, into the waiting, sun soaked sky.
. . . . . .
The title of this piece is the title of a song by Cigarettes After Sex, with whom I remain obsessed.
Allison Marie Conway 
I read gin and immediately stopped. Picked up my office phone. Informed my secretary to not disturb me for the next few moments or an hour. Pulled a fresh shot of espresso (yes, I have a kickass espresso machine in my office and yes, I am definitely so picky when it comes to making espresso that I do it myself otherwise a disturbance manifested as a series of shrieks, screams, and tears might follow if someone else dares to make it for me). I even poured myself a glass of GlenMorangie’s Signet single malt because such a captivating opening of a piece of prose deserves an elixir mesmerizing enough to match it and Signet with its rich taste and deep amber color felt like a worthy companion. I know, I know, espresso and whiskey but I don’t really care. I wanted the next few moments to be an abundance of brilliance and since I can also be glutton for awe I didn’t want to choose so I picked both.
And woooooohoooo was I right!!! Another piece that take one’s breath away with its effortless flow of words and sentences that gush like waterfalls in the spring as the ice and snow melts away high up in the mountains above. They provoke the mind. They shock the soul. I think it’s insane how well you express thoughts that quite a few readers have had in the past or now but can’t ever find a way to express. Your literary explorations feel as if they are the journeys of so many. Ah… it’s breathtaking. I am truly speechless for I fail to find words that would do at least a bare minimum justice to your writing (and trust me – after a double shot of espresso and a glass of whiskey I am usually anything else but quiet)… ❤️❤️❤️
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I loved reading every single word of this comment. Thank you so much for taking the time to share your whole experience of this piece….. I swear to god you make reading my writing sound like a fucking sacred ritual and it kills me dead. I adore you. I’m so grateful…. ❤️❤️💀🌹🕊
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Well… your writing is so good that it deserves a ritual! Hence: time for publishing a new book!!! For real! The world needs it! ❤️
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Oh my goodness you are such a joy. Your encouragement means more than I can say…. Thank you for always. ❤️🙏🏻🌹
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❤️❤️❤️
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Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet.
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🙏🏻🌹
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Always a joy and pleasure to read and share your posts with followers, My Dear! Hope you have a great day!! xoxox 😘💕🎁🌹
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I adore this. And Cigarettes After Sex have a sound and a poetry sensual, sexy, intelligent and emotionally raw. I understand why you like them.
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Oh god, yes. Yes you capture their whole mood exactly and why I am so taken with them. And that you adore this piece warms all of my everything. Thank you so much. 🖤🌹
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Imagining your everything. Warm.
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✨✨✨
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