I read this and had to share with all my ladies out there who at one point of time, felt these things….
“It’s been too long and I’m lost without you …” sings Aaliyah in my ear. I begin to sing along but the tears running down my cheeks soon betray the little bit of strength my voice boasted just a few minutes prior. Fuckin’ shuffle feature; one minute you’re attending a one-woman party to the tune of Collie Buddz and Sean Paul and the next, you’re literally singing the blues.
So here I am again: wide awake at 2:00 am, not a soul to speak to and absent his embrace. The roses he brought me have made habitable the bereft wasteland that is a lover’s empty bedroom, but even they appear to be crying with me now. Today, at least a hundred times I’ve reassured myself that estrangement is best. I did the, “now Eugenia, be realistic” thing in my head so many times, it has to be unhealthy at this point.
The real problem: this realism never lasts through the night. Busy days escort the spiritual to the rear as practicality takes precedence, but darkness always sees my spirit back to a position of power. Every evening, my spontaneous, ever-certain alter ego howls at the moon as Venus beckons her to welcome nightfall and the desertion of her sister’s battered rationality.
But moon rarely answers. It’s busy she suspects. Busy bringing in the tide of spirits the world over. So, with certitude clutched in hand, she waits patiently for the night moon to bring his alter ego (he who made floral that which was once a wasteland) back to shore.
Still, she fears the mortality of such confidence. Will this yearning yet consume her? If only moon would hasten its exercise and bring his lips to hers. Night would bleed into day and she’d sing him such a song.
You know I love your brown skin.
I can’t tell where yours begins.
I can’t tell where mine ends.