Elisabeth Writing

Our time is over, my dear. It’s long past. 

But in my dreams I am on the stairs, studying a grand ballroom. I watch the men and women twirl and laugh, how the women sip lemonade and move their fans demurely to cover how their faces flush with desire, how the men smirk and… hunger. I wear my hair up, curls framing my face. My dress falls to the floor in a shimmer of lovely cobalt, silk gloves in white, jewels that glint at my throat. I can’t see you. Are you here? Will you come? Will you take my Waltz and press me scandalously close? Will you dance with me more than once? I know we shouldn’t. We’d set tongues to wagging with that behavior but… But I yearn for you, as Selene when she first saw Endymion. Eternal slumber, curled by you as you dreamed… it would never be enough for me. I want those lovely light eyes to open, to see me. To love me. I descend, still looking. You said you’d come. I feel a hand grab my wrist.

It’s you. You, you, you. You ask for my card and claim my first dance, before any other gentleman can. My cheeks are roses, my eyes brighter than any treasure – because you are in my gaze, radiant and pure. We take to the dance floor, without a word. You’re burning me with barely a touch. Will there be marks where your fingers are so lightly touching my waist? You’re behaving with perfect decorum, but the tender half smile on your face, the rapacious gleam in your eye – can anyone else see? Do they see my young heart in your hands? Please handle it the way you are handling me as we move about the room: with the utmost care and respect. Please don’t bruise it. The dance ends and for a second – two – I am in your arms, still. I know heads will turn, but do their rules apply to us when we are in love? Love is love, let us be!

“Will you walk in the gardens with me?” You ask, the dimple in your cheek flashing. I look to my chaperone, my aunt, who is standing nearby with the other chaperones. They’re gossiping confections, twittering about this or that person, and I struggle to contain my impatience. I must ever appear the dutiful daughter, must remain within the bosom of society – or else be a pariah, the one they whisper about in hushed tones of warning.

“Oh go on, then. You won’t be the only two out for a stroll. But remain within sight! Don’t stray too far.”

We nod, and you tuck my hand into the crook of your arm. Can you feel my blood humming with the music of your name? You are a song, and I want to dance forever within the notes that make up who you are. Your oceanic eyes, the sly curl of your mouth, the slash of your brows, your kindness and intelligence. The garden is awash in moonlight, and the scent of gardenia and roses makes me feel dizzy. Or is it you? It’s probably you. It’s always you.

When you turn me to face you, I can feel storms and rainbows within my soul, aching to be free. The smile on my face is one for only your eyes to ever see. It’s yours, as I am yours. You look into my eyes and cup my face in your large palms, and the swell of emotion I see there makes me float, Fey like, above the world and all its sorrows. There is only joy, and you.

“Beth. I must…” Words fail you, for I was the wordsmith and you the astronomer. I wrote about the stars and you studied them.

“I know.” I say. My lips tremble open and my eyelashes flutter shut.

Our kiss is lightning. My heart and soul are scoured and renewed. And in the end, all that’s left is us.

My fingers curl and crinkle the faded fabric, and my eyes fill with tears. Ah! Young love is so impetuous and reckless, so fearlessly confident. My eyes are shadowed with dreams of destruction. I remember that night, and the others. Your name I haven’t written with these gnarled fingers in so long. Funny how life goes on, hearts are broken, but that night is as clear as the sound of a bluebell before a funeral.