The ideal Saturday morning is
Beautiful, sunny and bright
A gutsy morning breeze
Caresses in the morning light
Idyllic, leisurely and slow
That time just ebbs and flows
Wake up, yawn and stretch
Then flop back again in bed
When I’m finally ready to rise
I’ll pull on his favourite shirt
Barefooted on parquet tiles
Traipse quietly to the kitchen
Some milk and toast and honey
Probably a dash of coffee or two
Simple pleasures make my Saturday
And any other day too.
TRust is precious, for it’s
Utterly fragile, easily destroyed;
So betrayal, like spilt waters
Then could never be revoked.
诚信何谓贵
脆弱易摧毁;
背叛如覆水
一洒难收回。
I woke this morning
To the touch of your embrace
But you were not here
That parcel just came
It remains wrapped, unopened
For you are not here
The pain is still here
Yet no comfort will you give
You cannot be here
What I should believe
Doesn’t matter anymore
You’re no longer here.
That evening, we’d met.
And like the other evenings we’d met, our time was filled with engrossing discussions about everything under the sun.
We walked together in the late evening breeze, past Victoria Theatre, along the stretch of lamp-lit pavement, still talking and sometimes laughing together over what we were saying while the occasional car zipped past.
Arriving at the river, we sat down on the topmost ledge of the stone steps leading into the waters. Back when those buildings that flank it today were still a pile of stone bricks yet to be molded permanently into skyscrapers, when right across the river from us was the clock tower, which still stands in the same place today.
The breeze was cool, and the clock’s iridescent face shone out at us against its black hands. I felt his upper arm against mine as we sat shoulder to shoulder, still engaged in talk, yet enjoying the intermittent lapses into such comfortable silence of our presence.
In one of those moments I turned and found his eyes on me. His breath was against my cheek, his arm drew me in. And in the instant I closed my eyes I tasted his lips. A strange combination of tenderness and sweetness, urgency and lingering, a breath of his while the breeze tugged at my hair and teased.
After that night, he left – he could not stay. I never saw him again. Yet while the heart was broken, that first aftertaste remains and remembers.
(Daily Prompt: Silver Screen title is taken from Great Expectations. The first aftertaste is mine.)
Awl and Scribe 