Psyche's Aubade

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
A woman must leave her lover in the morning as penance for gazing upon his face during the night.

Submitted: February 21, 2009

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 21, 2009



Immovable darkness;

a heavy gauze curtain

which glitters and ruffles uncertainly

in the dark.  A light

- a firefly, a lonely white pearl –

squeaks through the repugnant darkness.


The lamplight spreads throughout the room and

flickers with ardor.

Golden thread; Eos’ arm,

that extends from the open lantern and

caresses your cherubic face.

Your Godly image

rises up to me from the nightly depths like a

glowing pink bubble

- a shiny new toy; a pink balloon.


Rosy alabaster skin;

a golden fleece for hair;

soft, rosy cheeks as if kissed

by the roses which grow upon the

hallowed earth within the Elysian gardens.

You are the epitome of love.

My love…


Peel back the curtain

and watch as Aurora opens her eyes and

embraces the sleeping land,

warming it with her golden hues,

faint pastels and powder blues.


You murmur in your sleep.

Your moth breath as soft

as a gentle summer wind that blows

across the wheat fields and through the rose

beds. A breath that quietens

- a retreating tide across the sand.

I stroke your silky skin.

I kiss your pillow like lips.


I know the price

which I now must pay.

I do. I do.

I just had to see you,

gaze upon you.

My love.

This room is the east and

you are the sun;

the bright shimmer upon a lake;

the shiny, silver lining upon a raincloud

which bursts and cries,

cries, cries. Releasing

its succulent fluids

- your élan vital –

into the fertile valley below.


Fluids that darken from a

translucent crystal to a

crimson pool

of sweet, sweet juice.

Which bleed and bleed

from the cracked cores of the passionflower

and shimmers upon the blades

of grass like the morning dew.


Now, I must part from you.

My soul mate;

the “toc” to the “tic”.

I’m sorry

but I must leave you behind.


From this somber chamber,

this rouge atrium that beats of love,

I step out and stretch my dove wings

and take flight upon Apollo’s golden chariot

and scatter our seed between the


baby’s breath and forget-me-nots.


© Copyright 2017 Topher Sparrow. All rights reserved.

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