Things That Happen With The Coming Of Night

Profile of A Woman

I miss autumn. Just as a refined woman leaves her lingering scent as she passes, you hazel crown still tingles my senses through our shared digital dreams. Those days must have left some sort of unremovable imprint on my soul -- even my eyes have turned brown, enduring the punishment of all other seasons, longing for your return.

Yet autumn has passed, her warmth gone swiftly, none as subtly as she came. It seems that while the sun rose one morning to announce the start of a day, it was really hinting me of her parting. Subtly she came, swiftly she left. As night fell, I craved for a familiar warmth and that dusty smell. But I was granted none; the seasons had changed, and into night I was cast.

A woman never uses more words than necessary to deliver her point. In fact, more is said through her eyes and posture than ever from the movement of her lips. Don't you notice that it is always the men who open up and pour their words in such vivid attempts at describing 'a woman'?

You never needed much. At your own time, you sketch such reminiscence in casual words and vivid style -- simple, yet gives as little away as these innocent black markings. If I should draw the picture of a woman, it's little wonder that it's you that should come flowing from my pen.

Noir.

Autumn was yours - your warmth and slow cascading flame left me so little room to hide. Now you ally yourself with the night. Every waking moment I am blessed to behold your opulent treasures, and every night I am assimilated in the darkness as your dark flame spills over my breast. We rule the twilights, you and I as queen and knight.

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A Rediscovered Youth; Rediscovered Joy.

When was the last time you drove with the windows down?

When was the last time you drove with the windows down and the music up?

When was the last time you did all that, and sang your heart out to the accompanyment of highway wind?

Now, when was the last time you cycled till your butt ached?

When was the last time you did all that and cycled till your butt ached?

Mine was on Thursday, after years of missed time. Grinding up each hill, zipping down each slope; feeling the wind in my face, and the anxiety in my heart as cars and trucks pass us by -- I felt reborn again. Those 4 hours seemed shorter than I had ever recalled, and the world suddenly seemed smaller too.

For that night, we could have been heroes riding upon our mystical steeds, charging hills and galloping through the urban jungle. The roads were our playgrounds while their inhabitants were the lazy lumbering giants. Upon and across these fields we darted, ducking between giants and zipping across their empty trails, ignoring their grunts and protests. If you ask me, I'd say that they were probably jealous of our freedom. Ah what price, to trade in the youth of your tiny limbs for gasoline mechanical advantage, only to find that you were better off with less in the first place.

And for those 4 hours, we were mythical riders: rugged, strong and careless. Adventure was our staple and the adrenalin was our wine. Your flushed cheeks were testament to our intoxicating chase. The streelamps were our crowd, cheering their tungsten chorus as we zipped past, our youthful energy burning bright in our eyes. And just at a particular moment, through a sideward glace, I caught sight of a scene.

Wind-tossed fringe, glistening skin, bright opulent pupils, burning with tungsten fervour... And lips curled with a joy bubbling deep within. We were the jungle children for the night, and nothing could stop us. We were happy and we were alive again.


JKLM