The Torso of Ellen

"would not, from all the borders of itself, burst like a star: for here there is no place that does not see you. You must change your life." --Rainer Marie Rilke, The Archaic Torso of Apollo

Earlier that evening he sat with the half eaten omelet, hash browns and coffee that long had grown cold.  Half written pages, like napkins, rested on the edge of the plate. A corner dipped into the ketchup filling the tiny veins lacing the pages.

Now, Harvey stood in the middle of the basketball court willing the gods to strike him with a billion watts of soul shearing lighting.  

After an hour, his eyes catching the flashing bolts,  he then, rather particularly, he started dancing.

At first, the little awkward movements seemed more like shuttering, but it soon became apparent when he flung his arms about and starting a moving his legs that he was attempting a dance of some sort.  At a glance one would think he was practicing a ritual of some kind.  He jumped through puddles, kicking-up water. He would suddenly stop, turn and shake his head, all the while churning his arms. One strike made him jump higher,  and he ran in the direction of the light to the edge of the court, then, he'd see another streak and whorl his way in the that direction.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a small figure standing in a small clearing. He stopped, looked and then began to smile.  He shouted, "I knew you would come! I know that you care for me!"

But the figure stood, immobile and solid as a statue. Harvey stopped dancing and moved toward the figure. In a sudden flash of light, the figure was struck by a blazing streak of light. Harvey froze. The small figure, seemed to waver like a mirage, then collapse.

Cupid's Dismay

At 2 A.M. Harvey stood in Ellen's office carefully sorting and stacking all the papers, paper clips, discarded wrappers, empty water bottles, pens and pencils. Ellen closes her apartment door at midnight every night and will not appear until 6:30 the next morning. No matter what.

Tonight, Harvey was going to make sure that the first thing she saw in the morning was his masterpiece.  A Shakespearian sonnet, no less.

The desk was now empty of everything but his poem. He ran the tape around the edges, careful to keep the tape straight. The small lamp puddled light on his poem. He stood quietly looking at his work then absently looked around her office.  Her smell lingered amid the sorted stacks and grime. For a moment he thought of the absurdity of it all, but he pulled his shoulders back slightly, took a deep breath and walked out.  The small light emptied out into the hallway as if wanting to follow him.

My life, my love, days grow long in your eye
I see the heavens open life eternal.
Your beauty reigns like kings of old who sigh,
For they cannot compare, not a kernel
Even I struggle to find the word, sight and sound.
Love twists and turns the heart and mind so oft
Yet lets all search inside and out to be found
Harsh in grace, cold melts warm, hard in soft.
But I, gentle love, have but little wit
My pen often loses its way, stumbles
Cupid tries to guide my hand, anon, quits.
He sees I am dull; eyes me, scoffs, grumbles.
     Watching me to him all must be foretold
     Oh, live with me I shall ever you to hold.