He decided that she must have been a flower in a previous life, because she blossomed in the sun. When she came out from any shelter or shade and the sun painted yellow across her, she relaxed and straightened and turned her head up ever so slightly. Often she would even smile, unaware, regardless of whatever other thought or emotion she might have been feeling just an instant ago in that darker, colder place. “She’s one of those flowers that open and turn toward the sun,” he told his friend. “Morning glories,” his friend replied.
Some species of morning glories bloom at night. Respectable morning glories do not associate with them. Who knows what they do in the dark, when good morning glories are closed, as they should be? They cannot possibly be up to anything wholesome or worthy. They must be lusty, bawdy, disreputable sorts of flowers. They dress in leather with body art and piercings. Their music is always too loud. They live only for the dark, cool night moment in which they find themselves. They are doomed and they don’t give a damn.
We meet each day at dawn and at dusk as we pass one another on the way from waking life to sleep. When the sun is setting she wakes me with a kiss. When the sun is rising I return the gift. We will talk, one of us blossoming as the other fades. If passion kindles we might rise and open to one another and spend our passing moments in urgent sexual communion or play. We are perfect together, like light and dark. I am her dream, and she is my daydream.
Hello, friends. I hope your plans are thwarted today in lovely ways.
Later. Love.
