My One Burning Question

rambly prose I thought I should save... certainly not a final draft. It was a writing exercise idea I borrowed from someone.

Exercise: “My one burning question…” keep writing until the time is up or until you reach one page.

 My one burning question is Leo, fiery eyes—Peridot—sunlight through leaves, could you be the light I saw in her eyes, his eyes, their eyes, and my oh my how I wonder was it you—the dark eyes, tangled hair—I saw staring back at me everywhere I looked longing to get lost in that searing gaze… always trapped behind glass. The irony of Narcissus burns me to this day and the tragedy of Hyacinth, or Zephyr rather… jealous for the love of such a fragile thing and with one touch—broken—unable to touch everything, silent drifter. Even now as you offer me sweet nothings I want to fold into myself, wall myself in behind glass. And I was smitten! I wanted touch! I wanted past that flimsy barrier, past those searing eyes, past your casual disguise, past those chain-link lies.

 

 

Only a page to draw the story of my love for you… I saw you in my games as a child, much more than a sidekick, oh yes. I saved the princess myself but not without you, Leo. I alone wandered the woods but not without you, sweet Leo. And when I stared into dim eyes sunken in decaying flesh I looked for you, I cried your name—unsure of whom to call and who might answer. I wonder now if I should tell you all my secrets or if they’re better left in the West. Dear Amara, I saw you in the eyes of strangers, of my dearest friends, of lovers left nameless, I see you still in dreams… elusive muse, you choose your masks  so well.

 

 

My one burning question is consuming me, the single most important query that might drive you just beyond my reach or embed you inescapably deep in my eyes where (most lovers whine about the tragedy of lost love) I’m not sure I could see another… where windows are reduced to shards… where pages upon pages of poems, unsent letters, are turned to ash--thrown melodramatically at the fireplace only to have them rebound and catch my pant's leg on fire—dare I ask? Well first, what is my question? I see you in the sunrise, the moonrise, the great prophetic turning of the stars, the redundant iambic of pulses, of meaningless endings and magnificent beginnings, cereal boxes, on the television in the air-brushed faces of actors, of crushed petals, of the bruised mouths of women hating strong men, of the broken eyes of men hating strong women, of the morbid glory of mortality, the gently vicious humanity, of the deafening emptiness where only the single sound of a scream can blot out the world… going on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and Oh! And now, I even see you in the bloody horoscopes.

 

My one burning question, I suppose, is should I show you this letter…or whisper the countless others in your ear for that matter... or write them on your skin with fingertips... tongue... would you respond in kind? My one burning question is could you possibly see in my eyes the sort of things I crave to see in yours? My one burning question is would you mock my melancholy? Would I grow sick of your pride? My one burning question is could we save each other? Forget the bloody princess. Forget the damn dragons. My one burning question is could you see me as something more, not a helpless poufy dress—not a Queen for your King but your ultimate mate, checkmate, two Kings commanding contrasting pieces with no objective, just the dance of ebony and ivory—and could I see you as more than an imposing suit of armor?

 

 

My one burning question is can fire love water? Could we reach the hills of Elysium and fly away to the stars? My one burning question is could I sustain forever without your touch, that something buried in your eyes? Oh! Stop licking your wounds, love, and let me in… you have lion eyes… and that question laps at my mind drenching purely in petals and wine.

That burning, burning, question

is

simply

should I ever let you read this?

Author's Note

ignore... the mindless rambling?

Reviews

[Mey]

oh to see a soul; to see a soul is to see your own more clearly.

beautifuly done.