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Showing posts from May, 2013

the con

did it not matter at all these 5 years?
did it mean nothing to you knowing me? am i just the same as all the others:
drunken flirtations without substance? just breasts & bum,
hit & run? with no need for kindnesses.

how could i have gotten this so wrong? awkward this, my musings, trying to make sense of things: was it all lies?
the sentiments false?
the interest a sham?
am i that foolish? could've sworn there was a connection, if the friendship was fake? why draw it out for so long?

awkward now... not the silence, nor the indifference; but that i have to un-know you, not say hello & how are u; avoid u when u are around.
did this not matter at all?
Bravo, you played me like a true salesman, selling falsehood like you were getting paid.
Sandy trembled as she wrote this down.
Reading it, and re-reading the words, wanting her pain to be obvious, her seething anger to spill over onto the blank white sheet so innocent at first, now covered in regret.
She regretted him...
That he got to see the side of…

Till death

Edgy.
Unsettled.
Perplexed.

Death does that.
It comes and holds up a mirror, forcing us to confront ourselves.
To question:
Is this who I am meant to be?
Am I leading an authentic life?
Am I going deliberately about my life?

It scares me, Love.
Can one love too much, too deeply?
Can you become so bonded with another that life without them is unbearable?


What folly for the one left behind once death has cast it's mantle.
Heavy stuff, this death, this dying.
I feel weary, shoulders knotted, tears a constant under quivering eyelids. I'm not sure who I am mourning more:
A woman ripped away as if the Angel of Death was in haste?
Or a husband left behind wondering, muttering, unfinished?
Or am I mourning for me?

 For some strange reason,  when reading a novel, I tend to skim over the last page, determined to know the outcome of a story. There's comfort in knowing, I suppose. But not with my own story! Not now, not with this!
I see my love story echoed in that of my in laws. I h…

Burning

Butterflies flutter butter soft, ever present in his presence.
Thoughts grip tightly onto images of him, my mind playing them over and over and over again as if on repeat....till my head hurts.
And my heart.

Aching heart throbs wildly; longing to be engulfed.
Eyes light up, pupils dilate... and the rest of my body follows; furiously set to smoulder.

He courses through my veins like a veld fire.
Hot as hell, and twice as punishing.
He weakens my knees... and my morals.
Mr Devil-may-care came and turned me on; turning my world on it's head.


It feels as if  I've been asleep since the dawn of time, not knowing. I think I had been waiting for him all along.

For him, my blood boils, fever spreads to limbs and loin. I tingle at the touch of him, lean into his glow, drawn to him like a moth to a flame...

A sudden draft jolts me from my reverie, someone in the office let the cold in.
"Get it together, Natalie!" I chide myself, "like a damned teenager with raging hormones…

The dance

Source: myemail.constantcontact.com via The Haute Enchilada Cafe and Gallery on Pinterest


"Dance with me," he said, his voice barely audible above the noise of  Cubanaon a Saturday Night. (http://www.cubana.co.za/Home.aspx

I reached for a familiar hand and he drew me up, my eyes saying yes, my body leaning into his warmth. This felt strange, us on a dance floor after all these years. We danced when we were dating, we dance with our children at parties, we dance when we are alone and feel foolish and frivolous.
 But not like this.

He steered me through the crowded room tightly packed with young people buzzed on spirits; on the weekend; on life. We were out of place here in the crowd of singletons hooking-up, hanging-out and souped-up on the thrill of the chase.

Cubana was pulsing with primitive beats, dancers gyrating with wild abandonment, women owning their sexiness: hips swaying, butts popping, bodies rocking...and cocktails flowing freely enough to allow for questionable c…

Spoons

"Spoons," he says, "we're always short of spoons."

His hands swirl bubbles furiously about in hot soapy water, the dirty cutlery making music in the stainless basin. Muscles flex through his grey t-shirt and his jeans hangs low, skimming the floor, his feet bare.

I stand watching from the doorway, amused by his aggravation, slightly turned on by the sight of him in front of the sink doing dishes.
"Dishwasher, no?"
"No," he says, glancing at me over his shoulder, "I was just making Hot Chocolate for us, a quick one before bed."
"Company?" I ask, too lazy to form complete sentences, already in another world.
"I won't be long, you get into bed, I'll finish up here."


I  traipse off to the bedroom, the rubber soles of my fluffy slippers dragging on the wooden floors. I sigh deeply, today was good: long and lazy, slow and sublime.
I climb into bed,  it's still warm. The blankets are rumpled.
I jump out ag…