I like being rattled. As in a story where
you’re plunged right into the woods,
in a twinkling darkness, and what’s
mixed up is terrifying, surreal,
pedestrian all at once.
In a dance with the moonlight, my dear Tessa,
you would too. It’s dissolute, but not
in that wasted way, more like as if you’ve
regained your senses (fiction being more real,
some would say) and that’s one way to deal
with an existential void, getting all
visceral, my dearest dear.
I might have omitted to say, I liked
the romance in it. Maybe that’s all I’m
capable of–this romantic longing–
some truth there that’s set upon us
like a hound, and we’d sooner turn
liverish if not for that. Enough said.
Prompt: We’re almost to the end of February, folks, the month of love. Therefore that’s what she’s prattling about. Love is a big deal. It is. And love comes in infinite forms, that’s a thing I’ve learned, in all its redeeming ways. And if I could quote John Keats, who had said, on his deathbed (well he died): “…Love is my religion–I could die for that–I could die for you.” I believe the love he had for Fanny was non-consummate. So love is a pretty ineffable thing. Write about love.