Forget me not....

A rewrite

Forget me not

 
I dreamed of you, I dreamed of us.
I picked-up the phone.
I was dreaming of your face, your voice, sweet like the German Summer wine.
I dreamed of your long legs and I dreamed of your lips upon my lips.

 

I don’t dial the phone. I whispered to the darkness.
Dear Ambrosia.
Why did you allow me to dance the dangerous tango with you?
Why my dear Ambrosia did you promise me love and you awoke my need to love and dance again?

 

I remember you whispered to me on the dance floor.
Be careful what you wish for. Great wishes make us wish for a miracle.
Dear Poet, no miracles in this life.
Just us wishy-washy people who daydream love is sweet and forever.
We are more Tomfoolery  than honest when the song is good and the skin demand attention.

 

I remember you, I remember us.
We went to the private motel room.
You removed your clothing slowly, allowed my eyes to be blessed by your hidden  soft and tender skin, your  rolling curves of your perfect womanly body.
You came to me you whispered,
am I running toward you or away dear Johnnie?

 

I put the phone away and I whispered to the lonely night.
Forget me not dear Ambrosia.
We played lovers and we played liars.
Two strangers seeking perfection and perfect love in a world where love is lost, forgotten.
I do remember you.

 

John Castellenas/Coyote

Reviews

[emmajoy]

That video crowns your words so finely, John... the beat of the music, the steps of the dance.. wrap around your words so well. Your past and its resultant writing sizzle the page.. but, as ever are gently, carefully put.. as they should be when a woman's involved. ' Be careful what you wish for. Great wishes make us wish for a miracle.' I see no sin in that. :))

[Coyote Poetry]

We need miracles dear Emma and thank you for reading.

[poetgurl]

deep and intriguing, as well as sad really. I see some memories in this. nicely expressed

[Coyote Poetry]

Thank you dear Kimmie. Memories, the poet and writers wealth.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i wonder if maybe we just don't play at love rather than really love...
how often do we play the parts in a play of romance...but eventually the show has its run come to an abrupt ending, and we are left holding the program which itself holds so many memories.
beautiful and sad write, Coyote.
j.

[Coyote Poetry]

Thank you Jacob for reading and the comment. When we are young. We don't know. Love is the kindest gift.