Eyes of Youth

“This is youth,” I murmur, as if words, spoken aloud, might move the scribes of the skies to write down this moment in the margins of our lives. “This is youth.” Flames flicker in eyes of deepest blue; in pools of amber something stirs; in dewdrops of olive hue something trembles—a tear threatens to fall, but no one notices. Hearts beat to rhythms of their own; laughter echoes into ink-black night. Where do those echoes go? Somewhere they must gather into records of youth, melodies of mirth that only the young can hear. A finger grazes a forearm, lingers like a yearned-for kiss, a prelude to a deeper kind of night. “Come closer, closer…” so the melody goes on, and youth evaporates into winter air as laughter turns to silent messages, a thousand words ushered in a single glance; figures slip out one by one. The room grows cold. The eyes of youth are elsewhere now; somewhere eyes aglow like shards of iridescent glass are tracing amber skin. Somewhere tears are falling; who knew obsidian eyes could spill tears of crystal blue?

Adieu, ma muse

At last you have changed, just as some flowers must give way to fruit. Now you bear the fruit of something changed, something grown—something: you. But that is not what I want to say. I could write you a sonnet, an alexandrine, a ballad; you could be my Laura, my sweet—but that would be a lie. Once, I could have written you those verses, but not anymore. That, still, is not what I want to say.

What I want to say is that I, too, have changed. The lights of Paris are dimmer now, though fireflies still call to mind rue Foyatier, still summon the ghost of your youth to kiss my hand. At the edges of my dreams you still wander, sometimes—not you, but the spectre of my love. Yet another muse has risen from the misty lake of my cool heart. A muse who had lain asleep beneath those cool waters has awakened to stir the pools of my amber eyes, and she has a name: me.

Calling Home

Yesterday, I called home. Perhaps the ringing echoes of that dial tone stirred the gingham curtains of autumn-leaf and rice-paper hue as it merged with the waltz of the wind. Perhaps those trilling notes scattered over the time-worn varnish of the parquet floor where life, life, life used to tread. Perhaps the sky beyond the windowpanes were impossibly blue, impossibly, impossibly—for colours change in memory. Indeed, I could hear no dial tone when I called. Silence bridged the spaces of time, and in that silence my mother, her hair still black as ravens’ wings, wiped her hands on the front of her speckled shirt and left the golden, olive pears bobbing in the kitchen basin to answer the phone. Her footsteps padded softly across the wooden floor; she was careful not to step on the creaky panels for I—small, hand curled by my cheek—was asleep on the green leather couch. Perhaps my mother smiled, wondering how the ringing phone had not woken me, or perhaps she was thinking only of the pears still bobbing in the basin. The phone stopped ringing. Slightly perplexed, slightly bemused, my mother shrugged and turned away, eyes flitting over my sleeping form to see that my blanket was still tucked over my shoulders. Indeed, the phone had stopped ringing because I, hearing only silence on the line, had ended the call. I did not know if I had expected an answer. Perhaps yes, but then again, no. Yet silence had suffused the veil of memory, stirred the winds of time. My eyes were misty under the winter sky, half a world away from where that house used to be, and a lifetime away from home. Indeed, the parquet floors had been torn up, the curtains no longer billowed in the morning wind, and no pears would grow again in that sunlit garden behind the kitchen, for like those mornings, house and home had ceased to be long ago. But no, that was not quite right. Not quite right, I mused, eyes sparkling, for I had just called home.

Cold

The sorrow of the world does not crush, does not stream in torrents over the fortress of the mind. The sorrow of the world steals in like a winter draft between wooden panels, whispers through mahogany walls and clear glass panes. It trickles in, drop by drop, eddies in pools of sunlight until the sunlight is light no longer, but reflections of solemn blue. The sorrow of the world fills a room slowly, steeps the warm heart in November chill, then all at once the soul shivers and thinks, “The world is so very cold.” So very cold, so very cold; warm tears flow onto faces of stone; why are we weeping? The air hollows, the air kisses. Stinging kisses of frost on tracks of tears waiting to dry. The sorrow comes like a child asking for shelter, for warmth, and as we come to take her in our arms the cold of her skin shocks us. How very, very cold. We draw threadbare thoughts of happiness across our trembling forms, but how feeble the flame of joy, how pale the hue of memory. We draw that insufficient quilt over the child of sorrow, rocking, rocking, rocking her to fitful sleep.

As I See It

What one might call, “lovers”: Here are two souls drawn to one another, two bodies licked with flames quenched only in tight embrace, but these flames, when quenched, further blaze. Here are two minds grown young again, playful, teasing, a little bored with life, a little curious about the pools that twinkle in moonlit eyes.

What one might call, “a couple”: Here are two souls watching songbirds sing. How long do songs last? they ask. Do they know? Do we? Fingers graze and fingers touch; this is bliss, they say, this is happiness. But streaks of violet burn their gaze: Is this, is this, is this eternal? The question begs an answer, an answer none can give. A light embrace tightens, feathers turn to steel. Fingers clench and fingers cling, Is this, is this, is this…

What one might call, “married life”: Here are two souls come to anchor at harbor, having sailed a long, long way. Watching the anchor vanish in blue fathoms, they pray to never again cast off, never again roam solitude’s midnight waters. Here are two voices that echo, harmonize, though now and then, discord sounds. Here is a promise, here is a kiss, here there is still no certainty.

What one might call, “love”: Qui sait ?