Contributor: Bruce Costello - - Alice the writer, in green jeans, with wet and wild eyes, lurching, bottle in hand, onto the footpath, into the night, muttering, muttering... "It seems I was not your destination. I was words that heard... I met a man who walked on paths untrodden before. How did he get there? How did he find the way? How can it be... that he does not love me...anymore? I was hands that healed... Listen, can’t you hear me, silently, in every part of you that I have touched? I was lips that loved... Can’t you taste my open mouth, moist eyes, my love that soothed your long held fears? I was a heart that cared... How dear you were, a delight of joy, light and laughter, a feeling that overwhelmed me and was me, the I that was me with you, a warm bath on a cold day, a cool drink when the tongue is hot and dry. I was eyes...

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Bruce Costello