Writing for Dead

Bits of magic floating in my body, making their way hither and thither. Poking their heads out of stretches of skin. Unable to be contained, exhilarated. Free. Blown up by involuntary chemicals of attraction. Of unbailable intoxications, within temporary periods of their existence. Longer periods of absence in between in which the longing for them, rises like a snake and raises its hood up. 

I had dreamt of a woman swimming in a dark pond of water lilies. A lily growing out of her navel, the center of her being. Flapping her hands and waving her calves with the panache of someone who never had the key to everlasting latitude. Making it to the far end of the pond in breaking dawn and drinking dew from the fallen leaves of the hibiscus. Mistress of seduction. Volatile, effervescent. Yet powerful and assertive for being known. Unstoppable, singular, raw.

Suddenly, after I met you, I have become that woman I had imagined of. Swivel ling around her own axis. Losing balance, scattering herself in a moment’s notice. Suddenly I am her now. 

And you, are nowhere around. You, the one who made me into her. I look out for you amidst my wild fixations with myself. With intolerable longing. Narrow my eyes and focus on the distances, look in between the trees where I was bred and born. 

I settle in the whirlpool of dark waters, unsettled. Looking.

And then you come running along. On the edges of the pond. Showing one hand out, as if to drag me out of the water. Save me. Pardon me. And let me go from myself. 

I move further into the water. Unreachable, untouchable. And hide my hands. And a water lily grows out of my navel.