I flinch into consciousness. My brain is scorched, permeated with a hippie Sun Goddess, dancing naked on the beach. Aditi, she is birthing my universe.
Meg Ryan sprite, Sharon Stone incubus, Helen of Troy. She is seductive in every feature, even her self- absorption.
She is a prism and the light, shattering the spectrum, spattering color violently in artistic frenzy. I am covered in a masterpiece to perplex conventional wisdom.
She shines like tin foil in a raccoon trap. She burns like sand in every direction without any shoes.
She is compelling, kindness rains on her, she cannot be denied any gift and in return she blesses me with her presence, a fleeting moment of attention. Her glance leaves me bare and raw. Her smile to cauterize the wound.
She never invites me into her heart, yet it is my home. My history is in the length of her hair, whipped about her by the wind, in her mouth when she laughs, brushed from her eyes impatiently.
She never really leaves me, but I seek her compulsively, like a philosopher after wisdom.
My bed without her is a playground with every piece of equipment broken, sharp, orange and pitted with corrosion.
My commitment was immediate and obvious, complete. My commitment bloomed into an orchid only Seuss could have created, a wild, passionate, lyrical, fantastic flower.
Then, she vanished, into the past. The most unreachable place. Colder and more distant than the arctic. That flower is seed to every other passion I have. None has every found such a fertile place to grow.
I fall heavily to unconsciousness. My brain scarred, infused with the romance and moonlight I painted over her image. She is my red stained goddess icon. My Venus artifact.


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