Her life is the same.
Yet something subtle, imperceptible, indefinable has changed.
She seeks it in the buildings, the landscape, the weather and the light. In the steam from her coffee. She looks for it in the faces of others. She tries to find clues in music, in art, and in films that make her laugh and cry. In books and in magazines and in the words of romantic poets
She watches clouds making familiar shapes across an ordinary sky.
She stands surrounded by night and studies the moon and stars. She lets the breeze tug at her hair and listens for something she might not hear.
In her room, with the lights down low, she examines her body, stripping naked, running her hands over her skin. She is alive to her own touch. Her fingers make her sigh. She breathes deeply.
She stares back at herself and tries to read her own expression.
Her eyes give something away. They are bright, wide, curious, excited. Her lips are full, the faintest of smiles kissing the edges. There is the softest blush upon her cheek, and in her throat.
Her life is the same
Yet something has changed.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic
This post was written a while ago. But sometimes old things strike new chords.
Art by Laszlo Gulyas