By Candy Caradoc
Arrive home. Alone.
Empty house. Empty heart.
Retire to bedroom. Pause to study the rose in the light of the full moon. Scent so sweet, so pleasing, so –
Sharp pain in fingertip. Red blood on black thorn. Pluck a petal from the flower and wipe away the blood. Red on red.
Rose placed gently on mantle in front of the clock.
Tonight there will be no sleep. Tonight will be filled with memories of the evening. Words and touches, feelings and senses replayed; relished.
The light of the full moon permeates the room. Illuminating and shadowing.
Curl up with the male-scented jacket. Drink in the flavour that surrounds the tongue. Think not of tomorrow.
Tomorrow is here. And empty. The night is gone.
The scent is faded. The mouth is dry. Memories are distorting. Rose petals are wilting.
– And he will not be able to give another now.
Long for another rose; a garden of his roses.
The solitary rose sits. The clock can tick by till there’s another. From him alone.
– He will come back one day. Till then the rose sits.
The petals wilt.
Grasp the rose with both hands. Blood on black thorns. Petals so sensuous; a scarlet so deep.
Place the rose before the clock. Loose petals are blown away with the wind.
Sleep is disturbed by the light of this moon. It wanes now.
Restless sleep drifts into dream . . .
Black on red. Rovens; ravens that spoil roses. They cover them, peck at them. The rovens don’t have to be there. They have been called upon. They are to cover all roses outside . . .
Wasp. Wasp is Queen of birds and mistress of fire. The wasp embodies something of this dreamer’s soul. The wasp has [or is] something that this dreamer [feels] cannot be without. Dreamer wants to embrace this; wants to devour it. But this is a wasp.
– Don’t loose the wasp. Hold onto the wasp.
The wasp stings. The wounded hand lets go.
Rovens see the wasp fly away. Rovens turn.
They are released. They have gone. They are no more.
The roses can be seen now. In time some may blossom well, and can be picked. The roses can now be enjoyed at leisure.
And so the dream ends.
This day is filled with visions of dreams. The rose in blood-stained hands has all but wilted away. And the black thorns are piercing. The petals that remain are soft, and still sweet. Sensuous. But soon enough they too will wilt.
And now night descends. The window is opened, the rose placed on the sill.
The blood on pierced hands is washed away – the red marks will heal themselves.
Tonight there will be sound sleep by the dark of the moon. And soon, when the moon is no longer dark, there will be the light of the new moon.
It is time to throw away the remains of the black thorn rose.
(A few petals remain on the mantle in front of the clock.)
And so, the night is at peace.
The window closes. The clock continues to tick.
It is time to let go.
It is time to move on.
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Candy Caradoc lives in Melbourne, Australia. She would rather be alone than lose herself in a crowd. She hates writing her own bio because anything of importance can be experienced - if not understood - from reading her work... Anything else is probably out of context/inconsequential/no one's business.