Powdery fog as though the white cloud sky, which expands dome-like forever, had descended to earth to wrap us in a muted ethereal peace we can scarcely believe we deserve and truth be told, we probably don’t. We are thieves on borrowed time. We weave secrets like temptation and open our fragile hearts in ways which can only end with utter devastation. Such is the nature of love and war, words recorded and words discarded altogether.
Soft like a heavenly sigh, the transition from fall into winter is nothing more than a whisper. A winter snow fall is surely only a spark away and autumn seems sure to leave us behind before it’s time. The trees stand bare, tangled dove gray spindles stretching high into the waiting open air. It is clear in my mind, though, much clearer than the hazy dawn as it rolls out into fuzzy birdsong morning. Crystal clear as an ocean swelling in dazzling golden light beneath a bright summer sun. I remember everything about the way you touched my body, coaxed her, made her moan and soak and come alive with each generous stroke. Every eager kiss which pressed and parted my thirsty pink lips.
Sundays are naked days, are full of warm and cozy ways to exist like we’ve spun ourselves right into a small close cocoon, wrapped in blankets by the fireplace. The last two humans left miraculously spared in a bruised and battered world. Turning logs into flame right before our sleepy bedroom eyes. The week will come pounding on the hardwood door of our weary bones tomorrow, cold and stiff as a goddamn corpse. A tortured energy seethes all across the terrified globe, collapsing steel buildings to dust and mountains into the bubbling sea, but we do not think of any of that now. Now, linen skin and fine champagne. Now, buttery toast and that blackberry jam that is so sumptuous with dark bursting sweetness it could make you cry. Now, hot mugs of French coffee and imaginations running wild with plans we swear we will keep for a future we pretend is ours to know.
Allison Marie Conway 
Your words are like sugar on the tongue melting love and wonder and fantasy with each one. I love this! 🥰
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Beautiful Eleanor, you have warmed my little heart with your kind and generous words. So very grateful you loved this, thank you so. 🥰♥️🌹🕊
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👌👌👌✒💝🙇♂️I wish you a passionate Sunday Allison🌸🌹😘
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Thank you so, dear Mic. And the very same to you.. 😘♥️🌹🕊🕊
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👀🎶🎵😘
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What a wonderful and poetic description you have made of a melancholic winter Sunday, Allison, not only from a philosophical and literary aspect but through sequences based on chains of images, ideas, feelings that are aroused in others and that make up the identity of the narrator herself… The last paragraph of your text, that of the tasty butter toast with blackberry jelly and the cup of hot coffee, has made me remember Marcel Proust’s In ‘Search of Lost Time’ and his muffin soaked in a cup of tea, that memoiristic human phenomenon in which perception, especially the smell, evokes a memory or reminiscence that transports the person to a memory that he thought he had forgotten. Unfortunately, I don’t have the aroma of a coffee close to me to make me remember past episodes of my life, but your lyrics have produced the same effect on me..
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I just adore reading your thoughts, feelings, and observations on this piece, Jei. Thank you ever so much for spending time in my world, tangled as it is with hope and trepidation, romance and melancholy… sights, visions, smells, tastes and all the rest. As I write to you now, I see my copy of Proust’s book on my shelf just as you reference, and I smile imaging warm tea and madeleines… and perhaps somewhere out there, you, writing away your own warm and wondrous imaginings… 🕊🌹🕊
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You’re welcome, sweet Allison. I’m just doing my duty. 🙂
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☺️
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Your words are as sweet and tangy as blackberry jam on the tongue!
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What a lovely thing to say, thank you ever so. 🥰🕊🌹
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Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet.
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Reading your words opens a world of feelings.
THANK YOU!
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