Journaling

Dear Diary

I have another way I want to tell you this story
Lately, I’ve been tipsy
Drinking him in like a good chocolate martini
Literally, sipping every ounce of him
Conversations flow
He fits well like a good support bra
More like strapless
Alluring and fierce
When he walks
The ground shakes his manliness
My garden purrs with moisture
Then he makes a confession
“I love to get my hands dirty”
“What do you mean?” I look oblivious, pretend not to understand
He gets on his knees, caresses the soil with the tips of his fingers
He picks a tiny flower among the wild lilies. “This is not meant to be ignored.”
The scent of jasmine surrounds us
“I love spring along with her stories,” I sighed.
“The moon is more interesting, spring to me is like a woman who constantly breaks your heart.”
“Are you serious?”
He shrugs, “she never stays, and she runs away once you pay her a compliment.”
I close my eyes, embracing the heat from the sun. “Well, I’m here, not going anytime soon.”
He gets up. “Really? And what season are you?”
“Would you like me to be your summer?”
He smiles, teeth as white as pearls. “You’ll give me heat then bounce.”
“Not true, you will always be hot.”
He shakes his head slowly. “I can handle heat, as a gardener it’s my specialty.” He steps close to my face, much taller than me and very easy on the eyes. The sun giggles along with my thoughts.
“So, tell me, do I need protection from your heat?”
“A good sunblock would help,” I respond, giving him a strange look.
He frowns, asking, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m looking for your imperfections, you hide them well.”
His dark brown face is shy at first. “That is what men are supposed to do; we reveal them when we’re ready.”
A week later, we are laying on green, lush grass listening to nature’s I-tune.
He admits, “I am left with a bad tan.”
“It’s the beginning of summer, enjoy it.”
I unbuckle his mind with my words.
He runs his hands over my soft, curly fro’. “Summer, I want you to stay,” he whispers in my ears.
Yellow tiny butterflies flirt around us.

“I can’t promise, it depends on how faithful you are.”
“I am willing to take care of you; flowers will bloom all over the world. I will water you everyday of the week.” His kiss long and slow is a poetic verse.
His promise is kept until September, and then he grows cold, distant and anxious.
“I need to hibernate,” his words a menacing whiz of fall.
My heart drops, the weather becomes menopausal, kicking the birds and butterflies away.
He is distracted, not looking at me.
“You have found someone new?”
“She is my fall.” He had no shame telling me this.
“She won’t stay long,” I warned. “Or love you like I do.”
The swirl of summer’s sweetness has disappeared.
He turns away
Not looking back
I vow his winter will be as bitter as my pain
His footprints resembles ugly watermarks with high definition on my journal
Quietly, I walk away
Knowing the moon has another story to tell
©2009 by Cathy Delaleu