The Lavender Pages
Whatever our souls are made of, these two are the same.
She sat cross-legged in the
dim hush of the room,
a lamp casting long purple shadows
across the pages of her journal.
The house was quiet asleep—
only the german cuckoo clock
broke the silence,
the ticking like distant footsteps.
But she was wide awake,
pulse quietly chanting a name.
There were moments—
when she could feel him
before the words even came.
As if thoughts crossed chasms of time and distance to find her.
Tonight was one of those nights.
Earlier, she, full of brightness and grace,
greeted her friends in big circle of love.
Smiling the way they loved,
delivering kindness like communion wafers.
But inside, behind the soft armor of charm,
she was somewhere else entirely.
A secret garden, locked from the world,
with a name carved into every tree.
No one noticed.
They never did.
She felt something unique
in the pantheon of her life.
Seen. Truly seen.
As if her soul had a shape that
someone could finally trace.
Wanted—yes, but not just a carnal lust
that felled so many through history.
A desire for her thoughts,
her cleverness,
her edges,
her ruin.
A kissed mind when others looked away.
Ache in that beautiful,
dangerous way.
The ache that
poetry understands.
As though each rib was a string,
and he a bow taut and sinewy.
Every letter from him a sonata.
Every glance imagined—a chorus.
She dreamed of possibilities
that couldn’t be.
Not in this world.
Maybe not in the next—
in dreams, in whispered hours,
in glances exchanged across
crowded rooms.
A liminal dwelling of existence.
She closed her journal slowly,
placed it on the bedside table
like a secret relic.
Then, stretching out across the covers,
she imagined the weight
of a head on her chest,
and fingers tracing poetry.
He had asked how her day went.
He always asked.
No one else did,
not like that.
Not with reverence.
And that made all the difference.
So she closed her eyes
and let sleep take her gently—
drifting into firelight and lilac air,
barefoot in the studio, the scent of oil paint and summer.
Still whispering poems
as pierced realities.
As if this time
she wouldn’t wake up alone.
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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