Love makes you search for crumbs of it everywhere; lick the plate clean, suck the pulp dry. After all, what is more animal than love? We are all carnivores of affection. The heart is an organ, yes, but also a plate laid bare on a table set for desire. Such a table asks no napkin; we are animal, we are human. I miss when someone couldn’t get enough of me. Perhaps no one truly can—who could ever be sated, when the taste of love marks no fullness? Satiation is an empty promise. I hope it is not unbecoming of me to crave that sweet hunger once again. True, that love always did taste better unfinished.
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Cecile Randall
Rose-tinted diarist
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One Sunny Morning
What does it say about me—the fact that I like to dance when I am alone? I listen to music that sounds like love. It belongs to the slowest, sugared mornings, when lace clings to my skin and coffee sweetens my mouth. I pause to watch my silhouette pirouette across the mirror. For a brief hour every morning, I am the pinnacle of womanhood. I twirl. I pinch at my stomach. I lie my head on satin pillows and stare at the ceiling and think and wonder and regret. I let jazz warm my soul. My room is messy and so is my heart. My vulnerabilities need no witness to breathe. I perform femininity for my own eyes, and thus I will always remain romantic, expressive, effervescent.
By Cecile Randall2 months ago in Poets
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