Written by Tia Wood

Is there not a place which exists only in my heart? Where the tiger harmonizes with the mouse. Where the winds are somber against the trees. Where the content flower grows among the everlasting sunshine. Does not that place exist? Or only in my heart? Where the morning casts a soft light on my walls, awakening me with gentleness. Where my rose bush is not plastic but genuine. And the loneliness of my days is no longer. That exists only in my heart. When just the thought of you humbles my soul until it can no longer speak except with the simplest of words.

Hunger.

A word that expresses so much. Hunger for food. Hunger for freedom. Hunger for love. I hunger most for love. A genuine love. A love which never dies. One that can outlast my two year marriage. He loved me but only what he dreamed of me; a dream turned nightmare was I. But only for him, not me and my child. He was our dream, our hope, our witness to life. But he confessed he loved me not and was not ready for fatherhood or marriage.

Words.

His words crawled like tiny sharp glass through my veins. When they reached my heart, they cut and made it bleed which no bandaid could cover, no stitches could heal. Prayer did not soothe nor did crying. When he was done, he took his hands and squeezed my heart; drawing the last drip to a pool of blood beside him on the floor. Then he danced, dragging his feet left and right with a rotten smile upon his face.

The dark set for one year, covering my windows and hiding my face. I hated him for loving him. My heart wanted to kill him. Each day it snipped his love from itself and unto the floor near the spot where he danced. In time, those snipplets became a pile until I love him no more and all that remained was a hunger void.

“I still care about you so.” He says.

“I need you not,” I replied turning my head from his pleading face. My heart killed him long ago, ‘tis true, I needed him not. “The Lord is all I need.”

‘Tis true, the Lord is all I need but this hunger remains. It is for a touch or a hug. Or a smile. Darkness remains. The same darkness which led me here, this trouble I am in. It came in the form of a man, five-ten, dark hair and hazel eyes. His mustache was rectangular which cupped the upper lid of his soft lip. His garments were always maroon or which or brown with little tails in the back and neatly tucked in the front. They called him Nathaniel.

“Good evening.” Nathaniel tipped his black hat. It reflected well in the moonlight.

“Evening.” I bowed. The lace around my bosom revealed an interesting set of peeks on my chest. For if he looked, I know not. But as I held out my hand, he kissed and met with my eyes. “You are a sculptor, are you not?”

“Indeed, I am.”

We walked on a path lit by the moonlight. Twenty rose bushes outlined both sides of the path and crept their way onto the stone and pebbles. I laid my gloved hand on his forearm and he embraced it.

“The moon reflects so beautifully on your face.” He said.

Indeed, I was flattered. I hid my head so slightly, a trick to encourage more. He reached down, picked a flower and slowly pushed the steam in the midst of my breasts. I breathed heavily, allowing him to do so.

“I must go.” I pulled away. “I am a lady and must act like so.” I pulled the rose from my breasts and threw it on the ground.

Nathaniel was a daring man to treat me as such. But his actions warmed my body and made me feel wanted. My head cared not what my heart wanted.

[ Copyright 2008. Do not republish without permission from the author. ]