My Brown Mouse
Three in the morning.
Thin curtains drawn across the night billow gracefully for the passing ghosts of memories.
Candles flicker, casting wisps of sweet vanilla breath into a swirling airborne waltz. A slow motion dance that fades gracefully into the unending dark pool of time.....
turning so slowly..., and yet the smoky curls are gone before they can be caught.
The last thin echoes of saxophone follow them as the Hi-Fi, duty done, patiently awaits instruction.
I throw another log on the hungry grate to feed the moving rusty light that flutters across my face, hypnotising, soothing, drawing out the day's toil. The warm flames lick my ancient cheeks and rimed eyes clean of heavily soiled spirits, like a faithful hound, pleased to see me again after so much time.
Silence! The final song has gone and given back the night to the dance of the fire.
Tap,... .... tap,.. tap,.. tap,... .... tap,... tap..
Silence is broken as a moth butts his head against the window pane, drawn by the promise of a passionate embrace with the flickering flame of candle.
To lose himself must he be burned?
Sacrifice his wings..., his heart?
Will no lesser passion do?
Promise! So much blindly burning promise!
Yet I see a Moth..., a Man..., who knows his fate...
...who's only fear is that he may miss it.
The night is so full tonight! The night is so full...
...for just another empty night.
I wonder where my little brown mouse is?
Will my heart skip as my ears catch the tiny sound of her tiny toes pattering on the wooden floor?
Will she emerge from her dark corner, to sit alone.
A neatly curled bundle of shining brown fur, washing delicate nose and whiskers with perfect tiny fingers?
A small brown bag of shining secrets.
Does she bathe in the same dancing shadows that lick me?
She never sees me! I set to stillness at the first scratch of those nervous little feet.
Her face knows only the touch of her own sweet fingers.
No one ever taught her how to see another, touch another.
No one ever showed her how they see her.
No one ever told her how she touches them
Could I ever trick you, catch you,
hold your soft brown body in my hands?
Would you burn? A sacrificial token to feed the fading candle of an old man's passion?
No, ...you will never know me!
Oh empty night,
she does not know how much she is loved!
Wibby 3 AM Tuesday the Ninth of September 2003