Someone comes to me, in the early morning hours. In early morning hours, when mist hangs on the horizons, with bare feet someone comes.

When dew drops stil cling to leaves, when the buds anticipate the sun's warmth, when birds still sit silently, someone comes to me.

With cool, smooth fingers and lazy eyes; with limbs delicately strong; with jasmine fragrances, o someone comes to me.

Who comes? Whose footsteps, whose whispers? Whose story comes to me? With the gentle morning, after the solitary night, with the promising sun, comes the promise.

They were hot, humid summer nights. We would dance at the studio on the Main at least once weekly. His embrace was strong, his movement controlled, decided and powerful. We would be chest to chest and in the soft seconds of stillness I would feel him grow even closer as he breathed.
His hair wet, his skin on the verge of damp, he would smell of summer rain on pebbles. How the nights would pass, the hours spun by round the floor and I was wrapped in a dream never to be fulfilled.
Although we would switch leads, there was nothing quite like begin led by him; caressing his neck, reaching down his firmly defined back, matching his every movement. As we stepped round the room nothing mattered save for the moments in his company.

And so the summer nights passed, till at its height when the days creeped into our nights, his embrace grew even closer. That night he was different. He was slower, even more attentive. His right hand roamed more than usual and his breath caressed my neck. We danced this way till dawn's breezes came stealthily, filling the red curtains of the studio.
Once the milonga ended he walked me home - a few blocks down the Main.

An awkward silence at my door. An invitation unsure. A welcome smile. Up the stairs, through the door - a surprise as his kiss came softly. His fragrance, his body firm and enveloping, his voice a whisper in my ear. He knew not what he did, he suspended all thought and lived his moment as fully as I felt it.

No words can describe the morning sun filtering through lace curtains onto us as we lay. As our breathing slowed, slowly we drifted off to a sleep in a satiated Montreal morning.

I dreamt of her then. Her beautiful face, her delicate skin beneath my fingers. In her eyes were tears.

The mediterranean wind blew through his hair; its blue eternities were lost in his eyes as he looked at me, smiling effortlessly. The sun, setting slowly behind me lent its glow to his face.

I remember it perfectly - this moment. I remeber him perfectly. He smelt of summer rain and earth. My fingers through his hair, my face against his, his breath on my neck as we danced. The life, the power in his chest. The hidden love, sweet desperation, the longing clutch on moments in his company... the time flowing like water through our fingers.

That evening, on the mediterranean, with his smile, with his mystery and his love - that evening he said words thick with truth, steeped in emotion. And as a thin veil of clouds moved silently through the sky, he drew the gun, pulled the trigger and ended it all.

Thanks Anand -

Were it not for you I would perhaps never post again. I had forgotten how potentially therapeautic this could be -

Dare I reflect on 2007?? I don't feel like I have the testicular fortitude. There were the highlights - ballroom, Antigua, weddings. But there were the heartbreaks - how much more of Eperience do I really have to endure before returning once more to the fabled Innocence?

An online personality test tells me that I love too much - and here I thought that I was cynical!

The more I read Williams' works the more I find in him in a kindred spirit - hopefully though, I age more attractively than he did...

2008?

Will most likely find me trying to occupy myself with classes; perhaps the adopting of a new hobby; sincere endeavours to forget the sad fact that I am aging and that I yet lack that fine balance I so desperately seek; more reading of Williams, Wilde chief among others; hosting more dinner/cocktail parties - after all, I really must take advantage of this apartment; and of course, an effort to face life with the attitude of the tarot's fool...

The picture looked back at me from the mantle. I turned to the large windows and saw unseeing the city stretch before me.

I had taken the picture on our trip to Italy. It was a warm evening and as the sun was setting over the bay and wind was playing in the sails of the boats in the harbour, we two were in the pool that overlooked the ocean. At one point he had turned to me, his arms resting on the side of the pool.

It felt complete. The picture was perfect. The sun setting softly, a thin view of the ocean and then him, his hair wet, his smile knowing.

The brandy was warm down my throat and city twinkled before me now. Who knows why I kept the picture...The trip was a week long, the relationship not much longer. In a city of glass and steel, where we mimic the night time sky at night with our incandescent lights; in a city where hearts are made of glass...

who keeps pictures anyway?

Ended.

So yeah - I'm all wonderfully unattached again. Great. One step closer to reality, I am now no longer searching.

It was wonderful to think that dreams could come true. Back when we had our heads in the skies among the stars. More and more it seems that dreams are not much more than drops of dew that vanish when you really begin living.

Resurface.

So it seems like the Knight was the last one about whom I wrote on this blog. Not a whole lot has happened since... well untill January that is.

New year's eve saw me set up with a scotian boy. There's no doubt that my gay friends new of my utterly desperate longing for a relationship and so there it was. Thanks to lots of good ole' Southern Comfort the night ended quite beautifully with what looked like a nice beginning.

Turns out we were both entirely too passive for each other - so passive that less than one month in, neither of us called to officially end it... in my defense though, I was the last to call ;)

Move forward a few weeks and see me messaged on facebook by a random west indian. One day later we have already talked on the phone and exchanged work email addresses. One day more and we have emailed each other an obscence number of times during the day (yes yes all while im 'working' lol) One week later we've seen each other twice for coffee and once for supper and drinks. One more week later and I'm losing my mind.

It's hard for me to figure out what's wrong with me. He's a nice guy - not completely out yet but still a sweetheart - does all the things that one would do like be concerned, call, pay attention and all those things - just that again, I'm not feeling it.

I'm so young in the relationship/dating thing it would seem. Perhaps I need to get out of the dreamy romance novels and poems and face reality. Or do I wait for bells and fireworks?