If you have not been over to Edward Hotspur’s place to see what the whys and wherefores are for Romantic Monday, you are encouraged (Do you see me with the raised eyebrow, crossed arms and tapping foot?) to do so when the house lights come back up. With no more palaver, Romantic Monday.
One glistening orb shatters on the back of her hand.
It took minutes to fall from her eyelashes.
She rests her elbows on her knees and
Her shoulders softly shake in rhythm with her sobs.
She covers her face with both hands,
Wipes away the pain before it splashes
Emotion on her new clothes, for it stains
All it touches – heart, body, mind and soul.
Drawing a deep breath in, thus forcing
Her spine straight and her slender shoulders back,
She sets off down the hall, quickly seeking
The warm caress of the downy bed, but
She stops just a step short of the threshold.
The fragrance on the cool air is riding.
It grabs her memory and dashes away.
He stands out at the end of the pier.
His voice rises above all others.
From deep in his chest it piques fear,
But in her heart it resonates,
Its tone like satin and so clear.
His stride is long. He waves his arms.
They are destined to meet right here.
Her hat flies away on the wind,
But he is quick and catches it
Before it lands in the high tide.
He is ginger not to crush it.
Demurely thankful eyes meet his.
Her voice, butterfly song quiet,
But the melody plays his heart.
He asks her to wait just a bit,
And she nods without knowing why.
The glowing candlelight flickers
On the table between their plates.
With wine falls away the jitters.
The dance floor beckons with soft rhythm,
And lyrics are lost in whispers
Of substance and sweet nothingness.
The merchant’s window shudders
As the sidewalk stretches toward home.
They hold hands under the porch light
And make plans for another day.
As the moon sets, they kiss goodnight.
He hands her a rose from the bush.
Watching him go, she holds it tight.
The sweet perfume of soft petals
Seals her memories of tonight
And spurs a dream of the future.
Tonight, the perfume is still sweet,
But the flowers are not for her.
She smashes the vase at her feet
And spills the water on the floor.
She knew she would have to compete
With his profession for his time.
Her cries are more than bittersweet
For funeral flowers on her
The entire point to Romantic Monday is to celebrate romance is not dead. I have to admit: It is only not dead because I finally quit trying to kill it. I am sardonically romantic. Bodice rippers top my list of things not to read.
Fortunately, the parameters of Edward Hotspur’s Romantic Monday include some other important aspects of romance outside the flowers and chocolates. While poetry and fiction about love are not foreign to me, the darkness in which romance inhabits my writing is likely foreign to the M3 Readers.
If this feature gets a thumbs up from you, we may try on this romantic hat for the month.
Did Mantra get this right? What is your definition of romance? Shall we try this for a month? Who wants to join in the fun and write romance on Mondays to start the week sweetly?