Non-Fiction - Books
BEHIND THE CUPBOARD DOOR
The benefits of living organized
(Excerpt - Pending Publication)
There are secrets that we all keep hidden behind closed doors. They are not the kind of secrets that are the result of past misguided decisions but are undisclosed personality traits that prohibit us from taking action when we find ourselves needing change. They are the inner-most prohibitors that detain us, allow us to procrastinate and halt us from achieving the benefits of living organized. We tell ourselves we can’t, but in reality, we are just not sure how. We feel guilt when we don’t accomplish what we think we should and, ultimately, dread setting aside the time to consider just exactly what it is we are looking to achieve. Our behavior is often the underlying force behind our obstacles leading us into avoiding the tasks associated with putting our lives in order.
We, as a society, tend to accumulate and everyone, at some time in their life, looks to themselves to clear out or reorganize. It could be simply making room in a closet or revamping a garage. It could be a more intense process requiring a project for downsizing the entire home for a move. It could mean establishing a more efficient method of office procedures and inter-department spacial relationships for improving communication. No matter what the need, organizing lifts the spirits and refreshes the mind.
This book is for those who are simply caught up in routine or have experienced loss or psychological stress and are unable or unaware of how to alter their situation in order to improve their living or working conditions. It is intended to explain the reasons why it is beneficial to put our time and what we own in order. It will focus on why it is important to recognize when we are a limited resource and when and why to seek out methods and processes that work to accomplish our individual goals.
Organizing is not a threat or a chore but an effective means of managing what we own and adopting practical methods that will lead us down a positive path toward order. It is an opportunity to become less burdened. An opportunity to embrace change that will positively affect our lives.
Whether we are interested in organizing our homes, our offices or our minds, it is worth making the effort to improve efficiencies and reap the rewards because behind every cupboard door lies immense possibilities.
EXCLUDING BECKY SUE
aka Dary Linnea Christian
Published March 2006- Excerpt)
This story is about 57 years of life. My life. Rebecca Sue Morris’s life. It is a convoluted tale of lost memories, abuse, and renewal. It’s about putting myself first at the expense of others and understanding the pain that can cause. It’s about my distorted beliefs that people existed solely to satisfy my desires and give me comfort without concern for their happiness. It’s about me, the lives I have affected and the lives I will.
In this brief glimpse into my life, I will attempt to explain my natural gift for successfully commanding attention and how I could cast a powerful spell over others that required them to adhere to my need to have fun and make sure I had enough alcohol at all times while maintaining a safe distance. It will speak of love and my inability to understand it or give it in return and of self-centralized priorities that established my own definitions of friendship, loyalty or commitment. It will speak of how easily I rid my life of anyone not friend enough to buy me booze, loyal enough to lie for me and committed enough to never expect anything from me in return. It will speak of anger, manipulations, loses, power, control, avoidance, confusion, indecision, and miracles.
Most importantly, my tale will help you understand the many details that made up my life and that most of my decisions were controlled by alcohol which created a behavior I desperately tried to deny. And that I had the support of many, who tried and most often failed to live up to my expectations. They are the ones for which this book is written. Because of them, they and everyone else that crosses my path can now stand blameless while I take responsibility.
Fiction - Books
CHICKEN POX AND ME
aka Dary Linnea Christian
The doctor came to see me.
He checked me through and through.
I wasn't feeling very well and thought I had the flu.
When he heard what I was thinking,
he shook his gray old head.
"Oh, if it was only that, it's the Chicken Pox," he said.
I wasn't sure what to expect.
He'd said to look for spots.
Red ones that would itch a bit, covering most of me with dots.
He gave me stuff to rub on them to make the itching stop.
And, medicine for me to drink to take away those spots.
Then, there they were, within two days.
Not one or two or three.
But, millions, billions, zillions, dots, and spots all over me.
They covered every single inch.
There wasn't room for skin.
The only space they didn't get was a place beneath my chin.
I couldn't sit or stand for long, fifteen minutes tops.
I couldn't even color, 'cause my hands were full of dots.
Friends were not allowed to come.
I was stuck inside my room.
It was lonely being by myself, so I searched for things to do.
I started with the dresser drawers, searching through each one.
I looked for stuff beneath my bed and got tired of VH1.
I would stare outside the window and hide so none would see.
'Cause I was now a scary, chalky-pink dot covered thing.
The time moved oh, so slowly.
I hated being in.
And, it seemed that by day five, this thing would never end.
I was tired of all my toys.
I'd read every single book.
I was tired of everything I owned and tired of how I looked.
On day six, I settled for a game and pulled it from the shelf.
And, in passing by a mirror, was surprised to see myself.
My face had almost fully cleared but for a few small, tiny specs.
I sighed, "It's almost over. The pox have almost left."
I never thought I'd be so pleased to see my freckled face.
Those once unwanted spots, were now welcome in their place.
It was so very easy, then, to say how bad it seemed.
When I was pink and red and tired and bored of all my things.
But, now and then, when I look back, I'd sometimes rather be, all alone in my own room, just the Chicken Pox and me.
(Unpublished - Excerpt)
To any man who has ever sailed to sea, he would know of the strong urge to return to it whether in life or in death. This was doubly true of Samuel Butler. From the first time he was old enough to paddle out into Quannaduck Cove he felt it. The openness around him lay soundless but for the slap of the oars as they cut into the water’s surface propelling his small boat through the still bay. In these years of Samuel’s youth, out of tragedy, he would come to sail the salty vast expanse he both feared and loved on a voyage to a special place known only to him as Discovery Point.
Stonington Harbor was a beautiful quiet seaport facing east of Mystic and north of the mouth of Long Island Sound, which flowed out to the Atlantic. Stonington was founded in the year 1649 and was the center of Connecticut’s commercial fishing and trade industry. Local seamen fished the bountiful waters from the rivers to the sea for lobster, whale and many other various combinations of fish and crustacean that lived in her depths. But more importantly, it was also home to Samuel and his family.
Samuel was born in Stonington Harbor, Connecticut in the year 1906 to Jeremiah and Sarah Jane Butler. Jeremiah was a proud and courageous man of modest means who simply and completely loved the sea despite her inexhaustible demands as she could be a lady asking little more than a gentle caress and then without warning take life returning nothing.
He was no different from any other who made his living from the sea, curtailed not by the fact that to make a living from her he would give up much and it often seemed the harder he worked the more she took.
YOU'RE SUCH A CHARACTER
aka Dary Linnea Christian
Reading through a book, one day, I did happen chance to see, that every letter in each word looked like a character to me.
I continued flipping through each page and as I read along, those
characters began to dance as if they'd heard a song.
Jumping all around the page, they jumbled up the words until they spelled out funny things that simply were absurd.
Before my eyes, an 'O' appeared before a 'W' and a 'Z'. And, in that moment I realized it was 'OWZ' they spelled for me.
At another glance a 'B' came up and joined an 'L' and 'I'. Of course, I figured out right quick, the word they spelled was 'BLI'.
An 'A' danced right before a 'G', followed quickly by a 'U'. Before they moved, I shouted out, "That word, it is 'AGU'.
I giggled as they spelled out words I'd never seen before, words like 'GLY' and 'KRIGG' and 'TOX', 'MIGGLEFRITZ' and 'SLORE'.
Soon they started calming down, returning to their places, those playful little characters in their caps and lowercases.
And, though it seemed I'd played with them on the pages down below, I was sure they hadn't noticed who it was that watched their show.
But, just before I closed that book, they moved across the page and on my face a smile arose, 'cause, you see, they spelled my name.
Be thee proud of the strength of the mast that holds fast the sail of a sailing ship.
Hoist her up that firm high spar where to catch the wind so to glide the sea.
Mind take heed of the water deep for to keep thee free of the dark below.
And cast thy eye to the far offshore and set thy course for imagined lands.
(Unpublished - Excerpt)
A long time ago, before anyone else was born, in a place where no other places existed, the world was lush with green forests and clear deep blue waters.
There were creatures that roamed the earth and flew the skies, all different yet they lived in harmony and they lived forever. These creatures knew nothing of tragedy or pain. They knew only of each other and lived without fear or need and were unlike any we know now.
They were tiny, no more than 3 inches tall. Some had wings and could fly for days without stopping to rest, these were white and red with wings of pearl. Some sailed on and under the sea never having to travel by land, these were blue and green with fins of silver. Some could traverse the land and hike the mountains with ease and were brown, with arms and legs tipped with gold. All had cherub-like features, round little cheeks, big bright eyes and all smelled of honey. These were called the ‘Others’.
Some of the Others were special creatures. These were called the
The Everythings were able to walk the earth, soar through the air and breathe underwater. They could do everything the others could but much much more. And it would be these that would change their world forever.
THE PRICE OF FREEDOM
(Unpublished - Excerpt)
If it hadn’t been her it would have most surely been someone else….
The sun was setting over the Pacific coast’s Los Angeles Harbor creating a scene that most often was only appreciated by a few poetic romantics who could see beauty in scaffolding, cargo containers, cranes and lifts. The long fingers of the harbor’s canals reached into the sea pulling inward against the tide ships needing to unload their burdens. Further out beyond the tugs and scows the ocean lay calm reflecting the sky’s now pinkish hue. It wouldn’t be long before night fell and the lights in the harbor would shine softly through the evening’s thick mist creating their own unique picturesque scene.
The deep-throated drone of a foghorn sounded, distant, faint and surreal yet loud enough to bring her out of her deep slumber. The sensation of waking was dizzying as she drifted in and out of blackness. As if in a dream, she felt completely detached from her body and her surroundings and a kind of heavy, weighted calm confused her attempt to open her eyes and concentrate. Was she asleep or not asleep, dreaming or not dreaming? Every effort on her part to fight against returning to an unconscious state seemed only to draw her closer to it. She needed to become aware of something, anything.
The beating of her heart disturbed the silence with labored murmurs and her temples throbbed under the pressure. She fought to ignore the pounding that was growing in intensity along with an uncomfortable heat that she felt rising up from under her.
Perspiration formed trickling down her cheeks and yet at the same time the delicate touch of a gentle breeze caressed her face, a strange sharp contrast to the consuming heat beneath.
A light puff of air lifted a lock of hair and placed it over her brow and with that she once again drifted off into an ethereal calm and lost consciousness.
She lived in an almost sleepy town. Almost, because it was alive and yet quietly exciting offering a kind of exotic appeal that sprang from the eclectic nature of the people living there. The city she called home lay on a peninsula jutting into the Pacific just north of Long Beach, California. It was once a fishing mecca, home to Italians and Croatians who migrated in the early 1900s in search of better dreams across the sea. It continued to hold the charm of those days through the never-to-be changed facades of the houses, the artifacts that were sold in the port shops and the boats that hugged tight to her shores. The locals honored their heritage and managed to keep it alive all these years hence.
To her, there was music in the name San Pedro. The kind of music that brought to mind sun-soaked beaches, cold, damp nights and quiet rains. Summer days were a combination of family picnics, tourists in search of memories and plays in the park. Summer nights were filled with conversation on the streets, music, and laughter in the bars and the smell of good food emanating from downtown haunts. It wasn’t much different in the winter except the town was shrouded in fog and there would be the smell of smoke rising from chimneys and the streets would be less active. It was a place where the homeless street rogues, wayward youth and crowded markets harmoniously melded together with the wealthy on the hill, the coffee shops, and antique stores to form a uniquely tightly woven tapestry of intrigue. San Pedro was a wondrously enchanting haven to those who lived there.
There was no way to know how much time passed before she began to regain her senses. She felt nothing but the rising heat and the cool September breeze that flowed over her. Her senses were stronger, this time, bringing with them an urge to move, though that would come later.
Her right forearm rested heavy on her chest, her fingers lay posed between her breasts which gently rose and fell with each breath she took. Her legs lay to one side bent discretely at the knees as if intentionally placed so as not to reveal too much to passersby. Her slightly twisted waist allowed her shoulders to rest squarely on the surface where she lay with her left arm at her side, palm facing downward and fingers splayed.
The heat rose through her fingertips. It was slightly less intense but there was something else. Beneath her fingers, she could feel hard objects raised and sharp like small stones or pieces of metal and it now suddenly became disturbingly clear that the warmth she felt rising from beneath her was from the days’ solar heated asphalt. She was lying in the street.
MAN IN THE ATTIC
by Jon B Reynaldi
High above the ceiling in the darkest of spaces, he kept a still vigil so as not to be heard.
The people below him knew not of his presence, living their lives as was always their way.
In daylight, he traveled in search of refreshment but returned to his haven in secret upstairs.
His purpose was simple revenge was his motive, for living above the family below.
Of all of his loves, only one was deserving of his making a home in the rafters above.
It would be worth the waiting the gross inconvenience watching steadfastly till time would allow.
The smells from the kitchen the sound from the children and pleasant exchanges brought his anger to bear.
But divulging himself in his unwelcome existence would cause fear and confusion when time wasn’t right.
There was a plan he’d developed requiring timing be perfect and the waiting was essential to making it work.
On one day he’d ventured returning, to safety but only by minutes when she made her way home.
It was a rare situation, she alone for the taking and he waited to strike at just the right time.
He crept toward the stairs leading down from the attic listening for movement in the spaces below.
It was the sound from the kitchen that helped lead him downward, and he stealthily slid to the carpeted floor.
His breathing was labored as he tried to stay silent, to remain undiscovered as anxiousness built.
His back to the wall he waited in anguish, saying “at last, it’d be over once and for all.”
Thinking back to the moment when he’d first heard her laughter from inside his bedroom where he wasn’t expected.
He’d sprung from the doorway and into another to find them together, the shock overwhelming.
In the instant, he saw her anger engulfed him and he turned his back to her and fled from his home.
It was now opportune the plan he had made there to return and take vengeance for the love she’d destroyed.
Her footsteps moved closer and he held his breath tighter hoping not to reveal the place where he hid.
Around through the doorway her shadow approaching and with that he emerged to catch her off-guard.
He attacked with great force leaving no way to fight the surprise having captured her breath, in the moment.
A stab to her chest left her limp in his arms, he kissed her sweet brow and helped her fall to the ground.
Revenge oh so sweet he felt resolved by the outcome and left her as silent as he’d first entered the attic.
No more would she hurt him and he smiled at his wisdom leaving all that behind him never more to return.
ONE HOUR AND THIRTY-NINE MINUTES
Jon B Reynaldi
At 10:45 pm, I heard your voice, its low tone soothing away any remnants of tension from the end of a workday.
At 10:59 pm, following an exchange of pleasantries, you surprised me by sharing a talent you had kept hidden from me all this time and I heard your voice sweetly sing to me a song you had written only moments before. Each lyrical note had been perfectly composed to deliver to its listener a melody so beautiful no words could be found that would adequately express its effect leaving one solitary tear to form and fall softly down my cheek.
At 11:17 pm, so taken by emotion, I reached for you and held you in my arms stroking your hair and your face with deliberate sensuality.
At 11:20 pm, I leaned to face you and gently kissed your lips tenderly to let you know that you had moved me and at 11:22 pm, you pulled me to you and returned my kiss with one of your own. A kiss so strong and firm it elevated my senses and I went limp in your arms.
At 11:26 pm, you cradled my head with one hand and held me securely against your chest with the other.
At 11:28 pm, you lay me down upon my bed and at 11:29 pm, you turned down the light and moved to undress me.
At 11:32 pm, you pushed away the straps of my gown from my shoulders and at 11:33 pm, I felt your lips brush across my neck and down until they rested firmly upon the hard buds which formed amid each breast causing my body to quiver with excitement.
At 11:35 pm, your voice broke the silence with words as melodious as the song you sang, stirring my emotions and filling me with desire.
At 11:40 pm, my hands found you hard, my touch invoking an accepting response beneath your clothes and at 11:45 pm, I released you and you stood back so I could admire you.
At 11:47 pm, I could not hold back the desire to open my legs to you and let you plunge deep inside me and I sighed at your aggression.
At 11:49 pm, we gave each other pleasing affection, our bodies rising in unison and at 12:20 am, our passion exploded in continuous waves of finality.
At 12:24 am, we lay together in a silent embrace and closed our eyes in satisfaction.
YOU ARE MY SEX
Jon B Reynaldi
You are my sex, she uttered, in soft small voice.
That which you allow me doth encompass and surround me.
And in your presence sweet warmth closes in around me.
You are my lover, she said, in same small voice.
The taste your lips offer mine own willing, leave me broken.
And upon reflection reveal words in secret spoken.
You are my friend, she said, in softer voice.
Open to give ear to recitations of wishes, wants, and longings.
And yielding to requests outside of normal yearnings.
You are my pillar, she spoke, in louder voice.
Encouraging an end to anxious thoughts and lack of prudence.
Giving ground to more productive judgment.
Though there may be those enthusiastic, none other can provide me.
the desire that swells within me.
You are my sex, she once again did voice
Jon B Reynaldi
Let me be the vessel from which you drink and give you that which will sustain you.
Take from my veins all that gives me life and question not as it is mine to surrender.
Kiss first my lips and let me caress your face before you satisfy your deepest hunger.
Then let me die in your embrace and know I now live inside you freely
DARK MOMENTS 2
Jon B Reynaldi
If when the night comes you'll be enveloped by her darkened shadows, she will calm you with her gentle breath and lay you open to her silent whispers.
If when the night comes she'll light the sky with gems of fire that peak through gauze like clouds and tease you from their distant places.
If when the night comes she'll bring the essence of a light perfume to tantalize your senses and bathe you in her morning dew.
If when the night comes.
Jon B Reynaldi
So, you want to be a pool boy.
That information brings me to my knees thinking of you tan and shirtless in your tightest blue jeans moving around a pool every muscle flexing as you work.
Thinking of your body beginning to sweat, drops of moisture falling down your smooth chest.
Thinking about you getting hot and stripping off your jeans to reveal the most form-fitting spandex shorts so tight I can see the outline of your cock. Thinking about watching you bend over, thighs cut and strong reaching into the pool cupping your hands in the water and pouring it over you to cool you down while it heats me up.
Thinking that if I were there I would run my hands down that body and make you want to have sex with me in that pool...boy.
Jon B Reynaldi
She walked down the hallway and turned the knob on the door to apartment 133 and stepped silently inside closing the door behind her. The room was small and dark lit only by a small lamp sitting on a table by a sofa. She walked over to the table and on it she noticed a glass, near overflowing, red and tempting. Beside the glass was a note which read "drink from this glass that which it holds then come in and let me taste the fullness of its flavor". She unbuttoned her coat letting it drop to the floor and lifted the glass to her lips. She curled up on the sofa and allowed herself to sip the wine in the comfort of the dark. When her glass was empty she returned it to the table, stood and moved quietly toward a door which was open slightly. She could hear music coming from within the room, on the other side, and pushed the door open further. There was a bed in the middle of the floor and laying on it was his body, naked and beautiful. He lay face up and she leaned over and touched his lips with her own. He stirred from his sleep and responsively invited her tongue into his mouth. Her kiss moved from his lips to his forehead and down to his neck. He reached out to hold her but she let him know in silence that this was unacceptable and continued with her kisses down his chest, his stomach and came to rest on his thighs. Gentle passionate kisses.
BURY ME NEXT TO CHARLES BUKOWSKI
by Jon B Reynaldi
Within the soul of every man lies another
that awaits the time when it is right to prove his individuality,
the time that is right to release the suppressed and fear not of retribution.
Letting rise a thunderous roar of words
not dared before let loose on tender ears that would give not to understanding,
those words held back from fear of retribution.
For, to bear the burden of misunderstanding
requires the coward open his voice and speak his mind though unapproved,
and stand on ground that he created without fear of retribution.
To rise from fear and move in opposite direction
to lead releasing deepened anger and inspiration following the drummer of his own choosing, never fearing retribution.
Selling open-minded rules of thought released from pain and anguish
an example set in motion words which bore not only vulgar content driven language but of life never fearing retribution.
And if this wisdom of expression lingers dormant in mine own true soul
then bury me next to Charles Bukowski so I, too, can shout from beyond the grave, "fear not of retribution."
aka Dary Linnea Christian
Before this day on sunlit sands, an aged dreamt of distant lands and pondered all the knowledge he had gathered in his time.
A lad of twelve, at least, not more, crept toward him on that lonely shore and sat down close beside him while he pondered all his knowledge.
The boy said, "In my younger years, a tale of mystery reached my ears of a shell that breathes life's truths to young men seeking guidance."
The elder said, "I know it well, give ear the secrets of the shell and lend keen judgment to the legend you have put your faith in."
Small and simple, by design, colors gray, white, brown and wine, adorned the shell the elder lay upon the sand before him.
Looking down, he eyed its splendor. Dreams of what the shell would render crept into the young boy's mind as he held it to his ear.
Listening hard, the youngster cried, "Not one wise word, the tale's a lie! The sound of wispering oceans is all this shell does bear me."
The aged knelt before the younger, "Wisdom's a result of hunger for the hidden secrets you must learn along life's path."
"Listen to your heart," he sighed, "for that is where direction lies. Not in shells or crystal spheres ignorant to wisdom."
The young boy bid the wiser thanks and left the aged by the banks pondering all the knowledge he had gathered in his time.
LETTERS TO S...
Jon B Reynaldi
In these recent times of wounded emotion
You opened up a once restricted mind
And allowed thoughts of passion to finally rise
It was your unrestrained expression
That gave the permission
And healed the pain of a once-troubled soul
Some fly high on imagination
Some sail far on imagination
Some live hard on imagination
Some love those of imagination
If I saw you on a city street
your arm about the waist of a new love
I would tip my hat and say good day
And none would know of us
Different years mattered not when we were new and anxious for the pleasure of forbidden kisses
Nothing would remind us of those years that mattered not as we drowned ourselves in unrestricted passion
As is patterned for survival youth's instincts seek their equal and those years begin to matter where there were no expectations
So when its time to leave me, be comforted by knowing, that those years that mattered not still matter not to me
My dear S…
I have to say you looked awfully good today. I tried to stay far from your door cause that would only make me want you more.
Sometimes it hurts to see you there when I know it won't go anywhere. But yet I look, knowing I can’t have you, which leaves me flustered and again I tell you. Don’t look so good everyday I see you, that would help when I know that I can’t have you.
I raise my fingers to your lips indicating not a word be spoken.
I interrupt your move to touch me and undress you with aggressive passion.
Your wrists I bind together so that you can only watch me, as I move before you in erotic fashion
Perhaps you need a reminder of what it’s like to fuck me.
That oh so tantalizing eagerness that you alone created.
In this time of constant pressure let stress not overcome you.
And, let that memory encourage and arouse your deepest urges
and know that if you need me the phone is your best friend.
Did it cross your mind today the things we spoke of yesterday
Did you recall its effect, did you smile at the memory
Did you want from the thought, did you desire a closer moment
Did you wish more was said, did it bring more to mind
Did it cross your mind today the things we spoke of yesterday
There are many things in my room,
drawers and closets filled with clothes,
a bed of soft sheets and throws,
lamps giving off an amber glow.
All in waiting for the moment
when you would be the key component
to make the room the prime proponent
for a night we’d both remember.
Is there something that you fear now that my situation’s altered?
Do you tremble at the thought I’ll ask more than you can offer?
Is it your fear that new demands would now be placed upon you?
Are you concerned our time will mean more than it used to?
Well, let me help address your fears so you needn’t worry further.
Be assured that though I want you I have not changed my disposition.
I will not ask any more of you than you feel that you can handle.
Just know that if you want me I am still at your disposal.
Please do not be afraid that I’ll try and take advantage.
Because my respect for what we’ve shared understands its limitations.
My dear S…
When your heart speaks of love
Be eager to hear its voice
When your body holds another
Be eager to receive her
If your memory drifts to me
Be eager to remember
Then cast those thoughts aside
And be eager to move forward
Dark and alone side by side
Beneath the theater screens blue light
You lay one hand upon my knee
And lean in closer next to me
I part my legs oh so discretely
Your fingers move to touch so neatly
Upon my thigh so soft and smooth
Underneath my skirt, your fingers move
A peak reveals the white bare roundness
Of a breast that begs for notice
My hand finds rest upon your lap
And you move a bit at my grasp
Our lips now touch in that darkened space
And excitement grows at a rapid pace
Each touch increases passions powers
And we look forward to the next two hours
I’ll tell you a little story of a man of quiet nature.
Who at first glimpse stands unassuming, the salt of this earth, I once was told.
Those closest to him understand he is a man who holds back nothing,
Giving all he can when aide is needed, relaxing pain with witty language.
But there inside him, underneath the quiet, lies a face concealed.
A silhouette turned to color in the hours beyond the days embrace.
Strength seeping from him expands in waves that capture then enclose.
A confident yet tempered man he stands powerful and open.
Compelling is this secret manner by this man of quiet nature.
IN A BAR
Jon B Reynaldi
In that place, where they always went together, the three of them, one did not show this time, and the two were left alone. Unsure of how to act, she tried to keep their conversation light despite her desire to say so much more. This was her friend, one of two that she found to be completely honest and loving and whom she cherished with all her heart. However, she liked this moment of exclusivity and desperately tried to push aside any feelings other than that of deep friendship so as not to cause him discomfort or doubt.
She always over thought each moment as if her own urges were the cause of another's decisions - and had to remind herself that his thinking did not match hers - and to relax keeping calm to be sure not to threaten the greatness of these relationships. It was too important to her not to lose the trust and exhilaration that their friendship gave her.
A band began to play and they moved to another room. The music was loud and sensuous making it more difficult to resist her own seductive behavior. It was also difficult to speak to one another and she had to lean in to him so she could hear and as she did she touched his arm. It was exciting to be that close. Then with each conversation, she let herself touch again and again and even allowed her hair to brush against his face as she came nearer to listen to his words.
So wonderful was the hint of a touch, the taste of a near embrace, the thought of a next move. Then he was saved in a moment by the presence of the other that she also loved.
Poetry below this line is of an erotic nature.