Invitation to Everywhere

A woman with presence that exudes,from herself, her sure-footed,planted soles that ground her, her head's tilt, just so, that frames her visage fit for the Louvre, fit to keep company with Mona Lisa, that riddling Sphinx, showing nothing of her hand, but...taking in all of me...and giving back: myself--my reflection in her impenetrable aviator sunglasses--this looking glass framed in the only plastic of herperson, I'm laughingly informed: no falsifying blade could write its bloody mark in this spoken-for page, on this splendid body of work-- My own self, yes, peering back sheepishly from her mirror face. She says she won't stifle my imagination, to write about anything, about everything. I watch the figure on the screen suddenly engulfed in a rising flood, shock in his telling eyes, trepidation on his sleeve. Will he swim, or sink like a stone that refuses to skip? Will it make a difference to the woman's tilt and stare. She goes, and I stay, and I decide with not a second left...to lift my hands and live, my fingers kick and swim violently on the keys, out of the sea of latent expectation, and, in this immaculate flow, I disappear, I breach the surface and I see that the storm has cleared: and I breathe. Floating here, I welcome her satisfaction,if it comes, but at the very least, I have this release and my own satisfaction. I am content.