On shore the land felt liquefied and unfamiliar without the sensual spark swimming along side me. The leaves glistened above my head, like golden gems you’d wear on a necklace. The Santa Fe river sang its song over rocks, branches and brush, while white butterflies and birds fluttered an awakening. I passed cafes, watched couples and families luxuriating in the sunlight, Canyon road art hawkers snapped photos, gallery owners chatted on the courtyards.
The stage of comfort as picturesque as a postcard. I was outside the activity. I rushed home, passing people who walked as if lost, and shoes stuck in tar. Thoughts trotted like ponies all going in different directions. No path had an answer, or a reason, or an understanding of our endearment.
The Thinker swims close by. Sometimes I feel him soaring past me, glancing for a moment, then he’s gone. The house is quiet, doors and shades closed. My nakedness is wrapped in blankets and the aroma of pumpkin spice from a candle. My stage is empty, no audience of any sort. These are the moments when examination of behavior, discipline, and self-honesty rise above the solitude. A woman of lovers rather than husbands, beckons my heart to open to the odyssey of love.
I appreciate all the new followers from the THE THINKER story. Thank you for
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