fLowering Beds of Death

by Deneen Ansley

I sit here, rubbing toes that no longer belong to me, soaking up the atmosphere of a house that will soon cease to be mine.
Your feet in my hand, you remain sleeping.
Peaceful.
The sweet curves of your face wrap themselves around my memory.
The fire in my tongue retains the taste of your body.
I recall the delicious, heady wine of our union that used to leave us both so intoxicated!
Isn’t that the way when love’s first bloom opens wide and strong and aromatic and beguiling and oh, oh, so boldly!
Do we give too much from the outset?
Why does the petal dry and crumble? Why does the scent extinguish to a mere hint, a promise, a glimpse of what could-have-been, would-have-been, wasn’t-meant-to-be?
****
Some people are soil, providing nutrients and a foundation for growth.
Some are vine, reaching practical, life bringing stems out into the world in search of light and air.
A season’s entire labors express themselves in a simple, tiny, bud.
Requiring much in nurturing, dreaming, hoping - that sacred, ephemeral bloom bursts forth!
I am but one petal inside of that bloom.
You are another.
The face upon the flower changes.
No house is ours to keep.
One season.
Turned to dust.
Fertilizing.
New growth.
A new blush…
And then…AGAIN!!!!
I sit here, rubbing toes that no longer belong to me, soaking up the atmosphere of a house that will soon cease to be mine.


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