She...

The song “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd always seems to stick itself into my mind at just the right moments. The chorus of the song repeating, my inner self singing along with it.

          “How I wish, how I wish you were here…because we’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year. Running over the same old ground; have we found the same old fears? How I wish you were here…”

          I sing that when I truly wish that she were here…that lovely mistress that brings her breath upon the still of night. In such elegance does she dance and walk, and in such grace does she speak and sing. How I wish she were here…in every single moment now, I wish she could. And in the deepest parts of my heart, I hope that she would, if able.

          The old Irish, lover’s soul in me speaks out at times like these. Even as I scribe this, my mind says every word as if I were from Dublin. I’m not sure as to why that happens, but I like the feeling; I always, somehow, think that an Irish man can be the most romantic man a woman could dream of. The accent just seems to fit the persona of a calm, caring, romantic, strong and willful man, the character that is detailed in the most perfect of romance novels.

          But, I find that I dream of her…and in those dreams I walk with her. We walk in my garden that I have resided in for all of my darkened years. Whenever I chose to close my eyes, I would always be taken away to these little paths within orchards and forests and prairies and flower fields. And in the times that I dream of her, we always come to the part of my garden where the roses are tended to. Their majesty blossoms through with every everlasting second that they live in my spirit. And every time that we walk through the path of roses, she always picks one single rose, one that had not been cut of its thorns. But the thorns do not cut her, and she brings the rose to her face, smells the scent, smiles and returns her eyes to me with that same smile, giving me the rose. At that point, that is where my dream ends.

          And I could never ask for a more romantic ending; because her presence in our garden has given me that romance.

 

Daniel Helle, Twenty-fifth of April, Two Thousand and Eleven.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A woman and a rose. Always a beautiful thing to behold. I like the feel and emotion of this chapter. The ending was very good. Thank you for this entertaining and powerful tale of love and life.
Coyote

[Lily Mae]

"her presence in our garden has given me that romance." Perfect...that Irish romance always wins a womans heart by just one moment..one phrase... You've done this chapter great justice and expressed these feelings and thoughts very well..xx

[Joiedevivre]

I love this song and all its lyrics. Beautifully inspired piece.
'Even as I scribe this, my mind says every word as if I were from Dublin.'
love this line so much!

[Matthew Smith]

Excellent wordplay--deeply emotional. The mention of that song (an awesome song, to be honest) was a perfect fit and set the tone for the rest of the piece. It remained true. There's a sense of sadness, of that longing you've so described.

Oh, and you're totally right. Those Irish b******s can be a wily, romantic sort; I found that out firsthand when one waltzed in and swept a former significant other off her feet, lol.