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Under the spell of his gaze
I open my eyes and remember, from the curse of my ongoing sleepless slumber.
The cold compels my skeletal bodily contours through the cold aura of my sheets. I don't sleep anymore. I can't.
Switching the light I reach for my gown and wrap it around the icy nakedness of my body. Your intoxicated gaze watches me, and helplessly, I stare back.
'How can you keep me waiting like this?'
It's fascinating how a photograph can become the only thing you ever want to talk to. Perhaps a little sad. I firmly hold it against my left breast and pray that you feel me, at least. Why don't you want to even talk.
I sighed, reluctant to feel a warmth finally radiate within me. It almost felt like the photograph was the source of heat. The last time I saw you. The only proof of just us. Two drunken souls; a cigarette that always seemed to be in your hand. You told me I shouldn't smoke.
'But'¦.. you sing too..' I can't remember what you said after that.
Why did you always restrain yourself from touching me? Were you afraid of loving me? Or were you just afraid of my feelings. Of being loved by someone like me. If only you just speak to me, I could feel that indescribable touch of love again.
The comfort of your presence, the gentle, almost taming tone of your voice, soothing my impulsive eagerness. The only satisfaction I needed. It was always a heartbeat away. That piercing gaze of your eyes that emerged from underneath your heavy eye brows each time our eyes met. Now it seems that's how we understood each other most. It's like our eyes said everything our voices wouldn't admit. Your eyes said more that words. They saw right inside of me and filled my every vein with your spirit. My heart was an over flowing piƱyata about to burst into bouquets of blood red roses.
'¦..now it's just that drunken gaze that imprints my mind'¦
'¦I flickered my eyes open to a blinding light that played upon face through a gap inbetween the curtains. Another day with out you. Why is it everything becomes nothing more than just a mere memory'¦.
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| Great descriptions Angela. The metaphors make it read very poetic, but can get a little too much. And I disagree with your own comment. You are a writer! |
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Comment by: - 2006-01-12 19:11
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| I see what you mean. This piece was actaully a poem at first, but I wanted to add to much information. I thought using metaphors would keep it true to the poetic content. I'm not really a writer anyway. |
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Comment by: AusInk - 2006-01-12 11:33
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| Interesting. I like the description , it is quite easy to feel the narrator's yearning. Although sometimes I think you just use metaphors for the sake of metaphors. "My heart was an over flowing piƱyata about to burst into bouquets of blood red roses." Does that mean anything? It it more powerful if the metaphors you use have meaning rather than just aesthetically pleasing images. By keeping the tone the same you have managed to maintain the desperate yearning of the narrator without sounding cliched. Just lose the nice-sounding meaningless metaphors and it will make a difference. -Analysing this text purely on literary skill, no other purpose implied- |
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"7 ways to get your money"
Ostensibly a novel about debt-collecting for small business people. It is in reality a book about how to get your own way in just about anything you want to do. Includes valuable strategies for overcoming human obstacles without aggression or use of expensive lawyers.
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