Thinking of You
I traced a raindrop with my finger as it slid down the windowpane, thinking of you and our final good-bye.
Cherry Blossom
Pink cherry blossom falling,
I often wonder why,
a beauty slowly taken
like branches now forsaken—
I am the tree
that learned to cry.
Farewell my love,
to fallen love,
the wind became
your words,
the emptiness
between us,
the silent petals
upon the earth.
Sunrise
A leg outstretched, the gentle stirring of crisp white sheets, a brilliant sliver of orange glow peeking through the bedroom window.
Pretty lips waking, a soft sigh lost to forest birdsong.
I could watch a million sunrises and still never see one quite as beautiful as your eyes slowly opening in the morning.
My Little Lighthouse
I could speak of many things.
How she lights up a room whenever she enters.
The brilliance of her smile when flashed in my direction.
The warm glow of her body lying next to mine on stormy nights.
The radiance of her presence when the darkness descends and all hope seems lost.
I call her my little lighthouse.
The Mirror
Miriam stared at the reflection in the mirror and barely recognized the woman who looked back.
Somehow the years had slipped by without her really noticing until today.
Gone was the young girl who fumbled and fidgeted in class, chewing on the end of a pencil, dreaming of falling in love and touching herself under the covers.
Missing too was the awkward girl who had stupidly said “I do” a couple of years later.
Even the confident girl who had recently found fame and fortune in the art world, had decided to pack up her brushes and run away to somewhere.
Miriam took a closer look.
Her distinctive black bob was now streaked with wispy strands of silvery gray and the fine lines that framed her smiling eyes told a brand-new story.
She was happy.
No longer shackled to the impossible dreams of youth and worldly expectations. The husband long gone and the white picket fence smashed forever.
For the very first time in her life Miriam felt blissfully content, empowered, and wonderfully free.
“Come back to bed.”
Lana’s words floated across the bedroom, wrapping themselves around Miriam’s naked body with a warmth she had never experienced before.
Turning away from the mirror, the girl finally became the woman.
At peace with herself and madly in love.
Lily
We all live with the burden of at least one regret.
Mine was called Lily.
Her final words etched into my memory.
—
“Many a beating heart is silenced by the tyranny of indifference.”
A Bell Does Sing
A bell that tolls
with singing chimes,
confetti rain
from brilliant skies,
your hand in mine
is ours to keep,
the vows we said
I do, begin—
the love we grow,
from deep within,
on finger placed
a golden ring,
no rising sun
shall set again,
for joyous day,
a bell does sing.
Imperfection
I have always found beauty in the crooked and flawed.
A lone dark cloud dancing on a stage of brilliant blue.
The honesty of a song sung slightly out of tune.
A pretty pink scar, its story told in a sentence written on a milky white thigh.
I think that’s why I love you and all your little eccentricities.
The exquisite poetry of imperfection.
Beautifully broken.
And wonderfully damaged.
Madly in Love
It had been a month now since I had first bumped into Lucy at the village carnival. Literally.
Her hot dog flying out of her hands, hitting my white shirt and spilling buttery onions, ketchup, and bright yellow mustard all down the front of it.
She was beside herself. Waving her hands in the air and almost dancing on the spot.
“I’m so sorry,” she nervously cried. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. Oh no, look at your shirt, I’m so very, very sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I lied, reaching for a crumpled tissue from my hip pocket.
“No, let me do that,” she said, taking the tissue from me and doing her best to clean up but making matters worse as she rubbed the stain deeper into the fabric.
I had to laugh. Watching this wisp of a girl with red hair and a crooked fringe try to navigate her way through what was nothing less than a bloody disaster. However, it was the moment the ice was broken, as laughter suddenly erupted from her pretty mouth and blushing cheeks.
Later that week, we met for coffee. Next, it was a movie, and before we knew it, we were sitting across from each other at a candlelit dinner, sipping red wine and eating pasta.
It fast became a spilt milk and broken teacup kind of romance.
A little manic, a lot of wringing of hands on her part, and several whispered conversations about nothing in particular.
Yet tonight it felt very different.
Lucy ran toward my waiting arms. Her green eyes burning bright, meeting mine with an intensity I had never seen before. She placed a finger to my lips, silencing any words that might tumble from them, before taking my hand and placing it firmly on her beating chest.
The seconds turned to minutes, the silence deafening.
Finally she uttered the words I would never forget.
—
“I’m a strange girl, hopelessly lost and terribly confused. What’s worse, I think I may have fallen madly in love with you.”
My Life Before You
I can remember a time when time itself seemed endless.
The second hand of a clock ticking in slow motion, the hour hand barely moving at all.
A dull, rhythmic monotony, filling an empty void of nothingness.
My life before you.
Now time has turned from a trickle to a raging river.
Bursting its banks with every beat of your heart.
Our love swept along by the rushing cold water.
Each passing day passing—
Into the past.
Eclipse
A solitary tear ran slowly down her cheek.
Reminding me of the painful words I had said, each syllable drawing a tiny bead of blood, making me feel pinpricks of regret deep inside my broken heart.
It was like our love had suddenly been captured, held for ransom by the eclipse of a dying moon.
A darkness cast, stealing the luminosity and innocent wonder from her firework eyes.
We found ourselves in the realm of suffocating shadows, sitting silently and staring out to sea.
Two shooting stars that had burned too brightly leaving a trail of sparkling nothingness.
—
Forgiveness came with a breaking wave, a gentle sigh, melting into the warm summer sand.
As the moon returned.
Its brilliant glow reaching out and guiding our souls along a pathway to redemption.
I felt your hand quietly take mine.
Your fingers tracing a new beginning, a smile drawn on the inside of my palm.
The universe had spoken.
Sophia
What do you want to do today?
It was one of those questions you dread, especially after an evening spent destroying a damn good bottle of Russian vodka and waking with a hangover that could demolish a large building.
I took anoth
er look at the text with blurry morning eyes and decided to play dead for a few minutes longer before responding.
No such luck as the next text pinged on my phone.
?????????????????
Sophia wasn’t the kind of girl to let sleeping dogs lie or have texts go unanswered.
Lunch, The Gallery, 12:30?
It was the best my trembling fingers could think of for a reply and perhaps a couple of coffee martinis might be the fix my fuzzy brain desperately needed.
Sophia’s reply came lightning fast.
Yes!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
—
I arrived at the restaurant like a man walking through thick mud.
The steaming hot shower and Red Bull had helped, but only just. Sophia was sitting at our favorite table in the corner, head down and scanning the menu.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, collapsing into the chair and summoning over a waiter.
“I hope it was a pleasant death,” Sophia laughed, eyes locked on mine.
The Gallery was a darling of a restaurant. Small, cozy, and unassuming, apart from the million-dollar paintings hanging on the cream-colored walls.
The restaurant was the indulgent hobby of the owner, Malcolm Devlin, who had made his fortune as a Wall Street trader before relocating to London to pursue his hospitality ambitions. There were no reservations or casual walk-ins allowed. It was a membership-only affair, with guests carefully vetted and an annual fee paid that covered all the exquisite food and fine wines. A little like a time-share arrangement. Sophia’s brushed metal card gave her entry for Wednesday lunch times and the coveted Saturday nights.
A coffee martini was placed quietly next to me while Sophia rattled off the order for both of us. Two dozen oysters to start, followed by the seafood platter for two and a bottle of Taittinger champagne on the side. The immaculately groomed waiter flashed her a smile and took the menu away.
“I thought I best handle the important decisions for the day,” she smiled, leaning over and kissing me on the cheek.
I loved this gorgeous girl who had the delightful habit of drifting into my life at the most unexpected moments. Wild and unpredictable, ridiculously rich and with a heart of gold to match. The last time we had met was six months ago at Sophia’s 30th, a dinner party that started with a birthday card and ended up in the tabloids. Celebrities and paparazzi fighting on the sidewalk.
“So how long are you in town?” I asked. “You know, it would have been nice to have had some warning. I would have gone easy last night and feel much better for it.”
“Drink up,” she replied. “You’ll be right in no time.”
I drained the last drop from the martini glass, only to have it instantly replaced by the grinning waiter. Sophia was intent on getting me pleasantly plastered it seemed. Which was always her motivation whenever we met.
“So come on, tell me, how long are you here for this time?” I asked again.
“Just the one night, on the red-eye tomorrow morning, heading off to Paris and then Milan,” she replied.
The oysters arrived on a plate of crushed ice, seaweed, and sliced organic lemons.
“They’re all for you,” she smiled, reaching for a glass of freshly poured champagne. “Did you think I would buy you lunch without some pretty strings attached?”
The coffee martinis had kicked in and I could feel a mischievous smile writing itself across my tired face. “So you booked a room for later too,” I said laughing.
Whenever we met in London it always ended up beneath the silk sheets of a messy bed in the Purple Palace, a small boutique hotel in Soho. Where discretion was served up nightly along with Belgian chocolates and a bouquet of bloodred roses. I loved the place and so did Sophia.
It was going to be a quick lunch.
—
“Untie me, please.”
Sophia looked up, her green eyes sparkling in the candlelight. Wrists tied to the bedposts by sheer black stockings and a just-fucked wetness between her legs.
I did as I was told, my eyes never leaving hers, as I gently liberated each outstretched arm.
“We really should get married,” I said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“Ha! Now wouldn’t that be a hoot,” she laughed. “The magazines would love it. However, I’m not sure Serena would be too thrilled with that arrangement. No, I think things are just perfect as they are, silly boy.”
Serena was Sophia’s longtime partner. Both enjoyed an open relationship and tolerated each other’s little discretions as long as they didn’t get too serious. More to the point, I really got on well with Serena and loved the nights we all spent together, drinking too much red wine and solving the problems of the world over a candlelit dinner table.
“I was joking.”
Sophia sighed. “Really?”
It was a subtle hint of repressed regret that escaped her pretty lips and a deep down sadness I shared too, every time she walked out of my life.
I felt her arms wrap around me, pulling my body closer to hers as we fell into an embrace that seemed to stop all time in its tracks.
It was love and neither of us could deny it.
—
Returning home in the taxi I found myself staring blankly out of the window, taking in the early morning pantomime of sleepy pedestrians waking up to the prospect of another working day. Faces painted with grim expressions and heads buried in iPhones.
My mind drifted away to that magical moment when Sophia and I met for the first time at a garden party.
Both of us tipsy, doing a clumsy waltz around the circular dance floor, trying our best not to bump into the other guests but failing spectacularly.
Her head resting on my shoulder, the chemistry between us instant and intoxicating.
When the music stopped, Sophia smiled and looked into my eyes with an intensity that ignited a fire deep within my heart.
I can still remember the first words she spoke.
“I’m not the kind of girl who wants her name tattooed on your arm,” she purred. “Think of me as your dirty little secret.”
I Miss You
It was the day
my world turned to dust.
The empty vase
where violets grew,
the unanswered text,
a crumpled note
cast to the floor—
forgotten.
A saucer of milk
left untouched,
the familiar meow
of a cat silenced,
by a final click
of a door closed—
forever.
It was the day
I held you for the very last time—
like a desperate moon clings
to a morning star.
Gold
Love is the real currency—the true wealth we all possess. Spend it wisely.
With You
Whenever I’m with you,
the clocks stop ticking,
death is forgotten
and spilt milk—
stays spilt.
Quicksand
To speak of unconditional love is like building a palace on quicksand.
The Boardwalk
I often found myself wandering along the creaky wooden boardwalk that lined a sandy beach of setting sun and loved-up couples clutching last-minute ice creams. The dripping cones ignored between hurried kisses and selfie shots taken with crooked horizons.
A kaleidoscope of constantly changing images moving in time with each step taken.
A lone Ferris wheel turning slowly in the distance. The squawking of angry seagulls fighting over the last thrown french fry. A wispy trail of grayish smoke curling up from a group of huddled skaters, the sweet aroma of pot and half-eaten hot dogs. A gorgeous girl with auburn hair, reading a well-worn copy of Brighton Rock. An elderly man sitting next to her, wearing an olive-green suit and a sleepy white terrier lying by his feet. The muted thunder of crashing waves, sparkles of dappled light dancing across t
he restless ocean. Sugary doughnuts placed into pretty pink paper bags by the Polish lady who never smiled, her gaudy purple-and-green-striped stand surrounded by a bunch of screaming children.
Suddenly, something new but strangely familiar caught my eye.
A shop window, filled with dusty headless mannequins, dressed formally in chic vintage clothing and antique jewelry. The sign above the door said “Under New Management,” written in red cursive lettering. A hypnotic trickle of Billie Holiday singing “Blue Moon,” flowing from two tinny outdoor speakers.
Somehow I felt drawn to this place, an overwhelming feeling of belonging taking me by the hand and pulling me inside, or maybe it was just the codeine kicking in. I had taken two extra-strength tablets before leaving home. To calm a restless late-afternoon hangover and take advantage of that wonderful, almost detached, floaty euphoric existence that the little white pills conjured up.
A tinkling silver bell rang above my head as I pushed open the squeaky door and entered the shop. My eyes blinking, adjusting to the low light, slowly taking in the cluttered shelves and crowded floor space, filled with all manner of treasures and curiosities.
Bitter Sweet Love (Michael Faudet) Page 4
