.
And the clouds will be like headlines on a new front page sky… shiver me timbers…
.
We’ll be a-sailing a-way. Turning to a fresh page, starting a new chapter.
.
Rachel F. The name haunts me. But it’s good. Thoughts of making blindingly passionate love to her – the one and only girl to feature in my after-hours imaginings, where feverish fantasies frolic around in the buff. And then, with not so much as a farewell note or a single red rose, I touch my mouth against her sleeping lips and steal out into the night, disappearing forever from her life. But if I changed my mind and decided to leave her a poem, this is what I’d write:
.
A tender token of our special night
I leave to you this poem
but look not here upon the page
it waits for you at home
What passed between us when we were one
close as two bodies get
is not a thing to trap on paper
nor a thing you can forget
The thing was a poem and
the poem is the thing
lock it in your memory just as it seems
reflect on it often and we’ll meet again
In yours, in mine
.
Now I remember why I don’t write poetry. But it’s kind of romantic, though, don’t’cha think? I’ll be the one she’ll always remember: the one who, in the fruity vernacular of the day, popped her cherry. And she’ll feel good in remembering it as a fair deal: she popped mine. .
Rationale enters suddenly and gives Romance the elbow. Lust and Raging Hormones are best not confused with Love.
.
.
We’re a pair of cherries sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g! A pair of musical notes side by side in the kind of candy-coated pop-song Bobby Sherman would’ve been singing when I was still sucking my thumb, unable to distinguish a noteworthy tune from a throwaway teeny-bop ditty. .
Sherman. Sweet as sherbet and just as likely to cause stomach cramps later.
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