Please drink of me, my love.
Please drink of me, my love
I hid in dark places for many years. I volunteered for far off places and war. I like the places where people wanted little and not everything. Dead men in spirit and dreams don’t ask for much.
Allusion of beauty had changed for me. Now I like the places where the woman wear black and hide behind fake smiles. I like the tight dresses and low cut blouses. Showing off their breast and tempting the men hiding out in the quiet and secret taverns.
Sara was a Eastern New York girl living in the sin of the San Francisco night. She had followed me to the tavern from the poetry reading in Berkley. She had listened to my poetry and I watched her legs move with tempting ease. Making me trip in words and thoughts. She gave me a wicked smile and she knew I enjoyed her bare legs in my view.
The painted beauty
I surrendered to you. You are art to my eyes. I want to caress your tender fingers and tell you. You make me wish to create. To paint your skin with perfect touch. I will write of beauty unknown and filled with mystery. You are the perfect view and I need to paint you with touch, kiss and words.
I left the bookstore and she asked for a ride to the city. She sat in silence as we crossed the bridge and than she followed me into the tavern. I ordered us two Long Island ice teas. She told me her name was Sara and was a budding writer. I told her I was Johnnie. A dying man looking for one reason to be alive. I liked her. Her black tight dress and and long auburn hair flowing down her back make me wish to hear her voice. Her dark eyes searched my eyes looking for something. She asked me. What is left when love isn’t a blessing? What is left when knowing and possessing love is a burden? Do we want to know love when she is away? Or do we accept little when there is nothing left?
I looked in her brown eyes and told her. You are a baby still. We will bleed and die often in love. I believe we need more than love. We need concern and accepted. We are all filled with dirty dreams and sin. Real love is accepting the hidden self and being able to show real face and dreams. Few people want to see us in real form.
Sara told me. I’m twenty four. The tapestry of life had led me to this city. I wear the clothing I want to put on. I do what I enjoy. I draw and write. I like you. You don’t want to impress me. That is why I’m sitting with you. I want you to drink of me, Johnnie. I want you to fall into my body. I can promise little. I can give you kind word and friendship if you want.
I reached over and I kissed her and I told her. You are too brave pretty lady. Old wars, bad love and dead bodies had led me here. You do make me smile. I like your sweet voice. Make me wish to hear you whispered secrets in the middle of the lonely and dark night. Let’s drink and talk. Let’s walk to the pier later and find some coffee. Maybe we can share story and life. Us writers need long talks and shared dreams. She reached over and kissed me once. I was wishing for more.