We would play

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Every once in a while I’m forced to write about love that doesn’t work out; where the people have to part. It’s not my favorite story to tell but it does happen. I had to find my voice in this story and it turned out to be in the form of poem which I hope will help me find my way.

 

Sometimes all you have is the memory . . .

 

We would play.

 

What we had was not pretend. It wasn’t a figment of my imagination or his. It was real and I can still feel

. . . his skin against mine as we entwined.

And his breath against my temple as I slept in his arms and listened to him slumber after our passionate play.

I say play because it was fun; delightful, energizing and exhausting.

I remember the sun shining high with bright beams of it sliding through the drawn curtains so that we could play uninterrupted and uninhibited and also because he liked the dark as long as I was his light.

I remember deep baritone chuckles at my excitement and then his intense stare when I learned to play his finely-tuned bow before he shot off his arrow

. . . and my gasp when he kissed me right there below, inside, around and around again.

 

We would play.

 

He would touch my skin and watch it come to life beneath each stroke and marvel at how he had such power to make me feel so alive

and that I was his and he was mine.

We’d laugh at movies and listen to old songs and talk about our paths before coming back before too long

to perform our favorite game.

 

We would play.

 

We’d often not talk about all the things we wanted to say

that might take the fun away

and when we talked it would need to be about the things that brought us peace or something as simple as what would you like to eat

. . . besides me, that is.

His rare smile for me warmed me in the places only he knew how to operate

and he knew it would be us again, finding a place again, to do the things that brought out the twinkling stars and the big moon would illuminate our display.

 

More importantly, I remember us sharing our hearts, beating as one, praying for each other to conquer it all.

In our play was more than fun, it was life lending itself a reprieve it so desperately did need.

 

We would play . . .

and now it’s just a memory.

©Aja 2016