I lie in contempt with my head and arms across
my desk, and it is barely half past noon on a Friday. The crease between my brows
deepens, as my cheeks look fiery red. A tired glazed - over look is beginning
to appear in my eyes. Here I awoke this morning to finish up a blog piece about
the passion that burns like fire within me, a spider web of flame that traps
me, hugging me tight in a warmth that reaches the center of my being.
Instead, the warmth and fuzzy feeling that is illuminating me, me thinks, is my sister's rum balls. Looking out past the curtains of my window, a pair of porcelain blue birds sit on an opposing windowsill in deepest conversation; drawing wings back as if ready to fly. I try to focus on the silence of my undressing, and the sound of the pulsating warm water soon to be against my flesh as I step into the shower.
A collective hush now falls over the birds, staring disapprovingly at my rawness; they fly away billowing in the breeze that initially stirred them. Pulsing rapturously with each breath, as the water trickles through my fingertips, listening to the tempestuous wind as it whips against the eaves and overhangs. Silence floats through my bathroom like a ghost as I feel them whirling around the inside of my head.
I grab for a towel, and further reach for the black leggings that accentuate the curvature of my body. I then pull down over my head the black top that pulls so nicely with these particular leggings. I reach for a glass or two of cucumber mint water which I hope will balance out the toxins I just ingested from the rum balls.
Little suckers sneak up on you quickly, (once you start downing them like jellybeans) Never make that mistake again!!!!! (I package up the remains of the jar, for an offering to be left on my neighbor's doorsteps). Hemingway liked his scotch, to the point that it drove him to drink; perhaps my sister’s Christmas Rum Balls were never within his arms reach.
**I will devotedly resist temptation to ever breach the jar of those damn rum balls ever again, as I get back to the business of blogging and articles. Friday’s always seem to stir a bit of “hunger” within me.
Instead, the warmth and fuzzy feeling that is illuminating me, me thinks, is my sister's rum balls. Looking out past the curtains of my window, a pair of porcelain blue birds sit on an opposing windowsill in deepest conversation; drawing wings back as if ready to fly. I try to focus on the silence of my undressing, and the sound of the pulsating warm water soon to be against my flesh as I step into the shower.
A collective hush now falls over the birds, staring disapprovingly at my rawness; they fly away billowing in the breeze that initially stirred them. Pulsing rapturously with each breath, as the water trickles through my fingertips, listening to the tempestuous wind as it whips against the eaves and overhangs. Silence floats through my bathroom like a ghost as I feel them whirling around the inside of my head.
I grab for a towel, and further reach for the black leggings that accentuate the curvature of my body. I then pull down over my head the black top that pulls so nicely with these particular leggings. I reach for a glass or two of cucumber mint water which I hope will balance out the toxins I just ingested from the rum balls.
Little suckers sneak up on you quickly, (once you start downing them like jellybeans) Never make that mistake again!!!!! (I package up the remains of the jar, for an offering to be left on my neighbor's doorsteps). Hemingway liked his scotch, to the point that it drove him to drink; perhaps my sister’s Christmas Rum Balls were never within his arms reach.
**I will devotedly resist temptation to ever breach the jar of those damn rum balls ever again, as I get back to the business of blogging and articles. Friday’s always seem to stir a bit of “hunger” within me.
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