Monday, November 12, 2012


I found this piece in a journal of mine. The person I'm writing about has been in my thoughts a lot lately. She has given me so much strength over these few years, I hope by posting this the universe will send some positive energy her way.

Incense, sweet and mellow fills the room. I sit, drinking bourbon on the rocks. I inhale the smoky sweet incense smell and my nostrils sting as it melds with the sharp wooden tones of the bourbon. Ice cubes clink as I tilt the glass idly from side to side. I murmur in contentment, my back resting against the alter. My friend reenters her bedroom- sipping her own bourbon. She smiles at me and I smile back. Strangely, I sense that she is less comfortable with me in her own bedroom that I with her in this foreign place. I think that maybe it is because this place is not so unusual to me, filled as it is with things that remind me of her. She seems to be struggling to fit my oddness into her normality.

I feel that I understand her more than she does me. I scold my ego. She comes to sit by me, invites me to the bed. I decline, thinking that this alter behind me is a grounding point that promotes my sense of security. I look fondly at the alter. I see many things that somehow comfort me. There is the incense gently smoldering on a hand-carved stand, its tendrils of smoke writing messages in a forgotten language. Coins are scattered about on a deep purple cloth, along with pictures of her ex lovers, including my current girlfriend. I'm filled with empathy and happiness for the love they once shared and the new kind of love that keeps them emotionally close even when their correspondance is strained.

My eyes settle on a thin object that is rectangular in form and covered by a dark piece of crushed velvet.  The image entices me and I feel my graze linger.

"For scrying," says my friend- observant as always.

 I blush, thinking that she must have have been watching me. Something about this brief exchange stirs my unconscious, I think I see something glimmer, bright and vibrant green out of the corner of my eye. I turn my head, but the sparkle s gone.

"Strange," I murmur.

 "What is?"

 I shrug her inquiry off. She nods in understanding and reaches into the cubby in her nightstand. I watch her fingers enviously. I admire their long, straight, strength. Eventually, she pulls out a book. It seems familiar  but not in a placeable way: The Last Poems of Planet Earth, she begins to read.

Though she stumbles over the words. I can't help but feel drawn to her voice. I've missed being read allowed to. I take a turn reading and am filled with a hunger to continue devouring the words on the page. She compliments me on my reading. I feel my cheeks redden yet again at her compliment. The hour grows late and the bourbon in my glass makes me feel fuzzy. I catch myself looking lustfully at the warm softness of her bed. She, observant as always, acknowledges my look and lies down. I snuggle in beside her and we pass the night the night that way, grounded in our mutual fondness and caressed by the the whispering smoke from the incense.

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