Moon Venus Conjunction

Stars spangled around her neck, and her music is wafting through the coffee house like a redolent scent. . . something you can’t exactly name (why can’t I see her eyes?). The whole of the World comes together where the nape of her neck meets the drape of her hair.
She says, “There are no words left to say, so we should walk out under an open sky. Walk down in the Park, by the river, that we might see reflections of stars in the gentle waters.”
“You are never so dangerous as when you are bored.”
“Is that what you think, that I am bored with you?”
I open a Doctor Pepper and contemplate my eternal question; “Am I a human trying to have a Spiritual Experience, or a spirit trying to have a Human Experience?” She answers by standing and moving toward the door.
She turns and bumps the door of the coffee shop open with her. . . posterior, and smiles her best sheepish grin. A grin that almost hides the wolf in her cobalt blue eyes.
The night is one of the few cool nights of early June, a properly chilled dark wine that is decanted down over our willing heads and hands. Lovers and other strangers are walking the uneven stone pathways weaving round and about the variegated-art of the Park. She navigates the civilized-wilderness path with fluidic ease. She wears tennis shoes (Converses, of course).
The Banyan tree (a sentence in and of itself).
She twines through the trunks and comes around to face me and the World goes away (how can she deny that she knows my feeling for her?). The Universe is only her eyes in this moment, in this moonlight, an arms length away and yet a chasm measuring an eternity across.
She says, “You are anything but boring. You are my best friend in the whole world.”
“About that. . .”
“Now you are going to spoil it all.” She kicks at one of the roots. Her face tells me it hurt, but she will not cry.
I say, “Men and women cannot be friends.”
She looks up through the canopy and the moon catches her face afire. “My spirit loves your spirit, why can’t that be enough?”
I walk over to the river (dark and swirling, I can hear the crashing waterfalls).
Something touches my arm and I turn (a very unfriendly turn). She pulls back.
I say, “You want to know what Hell is?” She shakes her head ‘no’, but doesn’t leave. “Hell is loving someone that does not love you back. Hell is being an actor in every moment of your life, because the truth is forbidden. God, I wish I had died about an hour before I met you, at least then I might have had a shot at Heaven.”

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Chyfrin the Celtic poet

Artist, Poet, Electrical/Biomedical Engineer, Actor, Playwright, Set construction, Educator, Lover of womankind and single malt scotch

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