MYRTLE WILLOUGHBY

June 10, 2012

MYRTLE WILLOUGHBY |

You were one of few waiting on the opposite track. My side was pregnant with those waiting to go to work

Soft. That’s all I could think, so the inside of my head warmed with the feeling.
I don’t know what I would have said to you but if I told someone else I’d say:
Her hair was Chestnut, both gentle and strong. A mare who remembers the wild. Like a raptor’s feather falling. It’s cliche to say it fell. But in the way water sweeps down or a willow weeps, her mane met its destiny with elegance.

So soft, I couldn’t hear anything else but your vision. Your lines silenced my headphones. So soft, your mint tank top draped in the warmth of the subway.
Your body was all I could see and your tides all I could hear. Your light cast my dark up out of my skin. Dark is so rarely above ground, exposed on my outsides. I felt gold and smart and wicked.

We saw each other for an eternity without making eye contact once. I know you. I know you. I’ve known you for a long time.
Your thighs sighed out to me, soft, like the rest of you.
I sighed into my coffee and relished ritual. We are as gods with our hot water and fire. You can be feminine and cold. Dark is cold. It’s just different from light. Dark can be soft along its inherent angles and contrasting forms.
But O! You smelled like the Dawn. Death, I expect, is like stepping into Dawn. Utterly unlike me and not ever to return to the dark again. I am a wicked one.

When you look at me, the soft fingers of early morning trail all over my insides. A promise. I’ll keep it even if you don’t.

We can be different.

When my train came, I got on it. I sat next to the window and saw you sweeping the seats, seeking me. Still soft, but sharp in your focus. The hunger.

So soft, you became Little as my train moved on the track.

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