I lie on my side and discover that Polly is gone. She has left my imagination to cut the darkness with a knife. She has filled my disillusionment with the comforts of paltry objects.
Her dog-eared book on the nightstand begs unread pages of forgiveness. “Skim a writer’s thought and there is always a snippet of your life,” she often said. She has clues, some she hides in a secret sleeve, others she shows with deliberate subtlety.
I tap the lampshade and feel the invisible heat emitting from the lightbulb. Not too long ago, she flipped the switch off and threw a passing glance on the mirror, her breath in bubble sack, her dark outline vaporizing as she tiptoed out of our bedroom, She waited and sneaked at the sound of my snoring, the thief, she couldn’t even devise an original plan.
Tucked under the pillow, her bra strap gleams with a strand of blonde hair. “Mint?” “It’s rosemary,” she scented it correctly after I kissed her forehead goodnight. My darling’s nipples, bless her nipples for arousing no regret, must be hard from driving in the cold, her hands on the wheel gripping the eloquence of infidelity, and her thighs reassuring the restless feet to pedal forward to her lover’s doorstep.
Outside my window, there is ambition on the ladder bragging on the crescent moon, an intimacy on an ivy wringing the cables for a sap of dawn, and the morning star an anchoring to my farsighted eyes.
Jay Coral wishes he has a magic carpet under his bed so he can fly anywhere during sleepless nights. At any event, he stays grounded on his blog at http://bluejayeye.blogspot.com.