“In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you”
Cook, baby. Cook! Fire up that old stove and magic the ingredients together. Work the creation into a culinary batch of divine intervention. Fill the pan with life and love– with before–with now–with someday. Sprinkle in more of that “we-will-be-the-always-and-forever” of songs, baby. Spice it up with so much hope and glory that we sit there at the table, grinning at each other, basking in the afterglow of recipe conception. For you and I are the gods of gastronomic design. Our universe swirls with the passion that sizzles and fizzles in the drop of olive oil. Lush and iniquitously large measures are for the living; to hell with the consequences. The future is now and we are hungry.
Visionary tics shivering in the chest
Moth to flame, my eyes linger on the spectrum of gold, red, amber fluttering, sun-kissed, from the trees in your mother’s back-garden. I stand there in her kitchen– Aureolin painted around the window framing the living autumn scene just without. I stand in front of you, sipping on a proper cup of tea which you ritualistically bestowed on me. As you smile, my heart quickens and I realise that there are more seasons between us than a little. So many degrees of experience and inexperience that go unclaimed as two very new souls try this life out for the very first time.
I had been far too lonesome before. Home being thousands of miles away and with little hope of going back, I had long since given up the hope that I would belong anywhere. But there is so much brightness in this room. And the blue in your eyes rival the Texas sky. And here in the grey of autumn day, you sliced a piece of heaven for me and soothed my vagrant heart.
Something that you feel will find its own form
I–on the passenger side–find myself eagerly stretching my face toward the sun with greed—taking each slice of golden shard that cuts its way through stalwart black clouds—I want warmth. I want mirth. I wanted the summer again. All I can say is that I want.
We three colleagues in a car–driving to an appointment just a bit too far—chatting about this little thing—that little thing—anecdotes of life and people and dogs–making our way through Sutton in Ashfield—making our way through the minutes, hours, day. But my mind wanders away from them–to those days I found myself on this same road–three seasons ago–on the A38 turning onto Coxmoor Road to Eastfield Side before meandering my way to your door—to a threshold filled with “I love you”.
My eye grabs the sight of an amber leaf that lost its grasp from pale branch. It twirls and sweeps up—plunging and twirls and dives–dancing on current before committing itself to what will come— what will come–out of my sight—gone—
Left to wander the streets in my mind–those streets on which I spent so many days and nights navigating my way to you.
But I—on the passenger side—and those days have gone.