Woke up inspired to write. As usual, the title formed itself in between the paragraphs and the opening line changed, twice. Most important, I posted to the group and so I am now off to engage in any activity that will slow down my overly anxious heart. Is this what it feels like to be a writer…let’s not start that inner debate.
Marshmallow
He is here.
His laugh tastes like a fluffy chocolate dessert that transports your buds to a galaxy of a billion stars where you float on a bed of strawberries, dancing on his tongue and emerging, mesmerised, you linger on the tips of his full lips savouring his every word.
His energy.
It rises like the notes of a beautiful melody; violin strings hanging in the air; pulling your heart strings like a lullaby and I am lured into peaceful, head against his shoulder; drowning in his cinnamon scent of wholeness, goodness, familiarity – home.
The little hairs on the nape of his neck.
When touched lightly, you can trace them to their edges where fingertips brush skin and tip toe down the spine, each bump forming his height and because he towers over me, it takes a while to lap up the sunshine, admiring each curve of his golden skin; sighing in delight.
This is love.
They say the best thing that can happen to you is meeting your soul mate. In a world of seven billion people, I celebrate our moments with songs of gratitude reciting all the psalms, written and unwritten, imprinted in the veins of my heart. Seven billion people and here we are.
We are a marshmallow him and I, the twisted type. I the pink and he the white, slow melting into each other in the embrace of a camp fire, its embers the colour of love. To marry your soul mate is the lingering sweet taste of a horizon where sky kisses sea; mountain kisses earth in an explosion of light and when day kisses night; he marries my best friend, the yellow twist, while I hold her bouquet to my face hoping it stifles my cries.
(c) Yaya
Unpublished work, October 2016
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