Amaretto Sunrise
by
Wayne Thomas
(Age: 58)
copyright 03-29-2008
Age Rating: 13 to 127
That very word, you know,
rips back the shrouded years
and there you are--
just as I'll always remember--
my one true love,
forever out of reach.
Holding hands and giggling like kids,
circling round those ivied halls,
dreams at full candlepower,
both of us taken,
both of us smitten,
alas, and no way out.
And here I am,
feeling your fingers
stroking my hands as we
wander through the forest
only one of us can see.
You remember.
Ah, love, I'd gladly
grab them back--
those were my summer days,
the happiest days of my life.
(those halcyon days of yester-youth)
Carpe diem! we could shout, and
Thus I clutch tomorrow like a toy!
To live again that untrammeled joy and wonder.
To live again those endless summer mornings.
The starry purple evenings.
Aching fingers from hours of music
we made together.
And every song
John Denver ever wrote
we played and sang
till our hearts ran dry.
School days.
Trips to the mountains.
You buying me dinner.
And walking by your side I found
the peace I'd never known.
I sit awhile, dreaming,
staring out the window,
staring at the blinking cursor,
return the book,
damp covered,
to its niche,
and go for coffee,
my mind eerily transformed.
And once again
I ask the silent air
where are you, love?
And as always,
there is no reply,
just a hint of Amaretto
from an office down the hall.
And there I go again,
lost on a dream ship fantasy
of time and spaces past,
footsteps echoing between us--
corridors,
parks,
shopping malls,
mountain trails,
our footsteps,
one step at a time.
Love of my life,
are you sad or happy?
I have your number, dear one,
but I just can't seem to
make it to the phone.
Amaretto sadness--
cue for black.
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There are those triggers,
a word or a sound,
a song or a scent,
that open a portal to the past.
Whether we go reluctantly
or race to the rear
of the "Wardrobe"...
Once submersed
in a subaqueous reverie
drowning in dreams
of "yester-youth"
the moment captures,
captivates and caresses
the soul as it confesses
it never wanted to leave
You MUST know first hand
the paths to this dreamland
the key to unlock
time's stubborn door
occluding the entrance to remembrance
of a long lost, but ne'er forgotten lover
You found it, I know, just before
replacing that book, no longer dusty
used, abused, fondled, replaced
... "damp covered"
A sad and haunting tribute to a former intimate companion, I take it. Or depending on how you look at it, a good dark poem . Technically sound with good structure and imagery.
You are now the king of lost love writers.
"Forward into the breech, lads, one more time".
This may be a long comment, but we'll see where it ends up.^^ I didn't understand this one. At all. At first. But, being me, I read it again. And again. And again. (I have a reasonable amount of time on my hands ^_~) The pieces wouldn't fit. Almost, but not quite. Then the line about the dusty book came clear and I recognized that you were telling us about an imaginary journey, or maybe even one that was real, maybe just parts of it, both--leaving the reader to wonder if why the love, the being together, were you not still together unless it was all as a dream, born of things that lived between the pages of a book and took you to the land of "almost was."
I will go with, "some of both, please." And share your melancholy dream of your delights--real or read. Sometimes I wonder at the hazy boundaries between the two.
If my thinking is wrong, please don't disturb my illusions, but the more it's read, the more it seems to fit. Which is a tribute to your writing, after all, that the imagination was captured and would not turn it loose to bother other folks, until it all came clear. Sort of.
I did enjoy this write, but it made me sad and wistful, knowing that at the end of the hall there was only amaretto instead of amoratto.
Welcome !
