Such a sweet song rests in the bones of us.
Flowing and free, like the breeze
that floated me to you
and you to me.
Warmed by the sun of yesterday’s
most blissful day,
I am lost within a memory,
bathing in the wistful days
of us.
Categories
Tag: Love story
Categories
Beautiful Friend
Some days I miss you.
Just because I do.
But also because I have loved you to the Milky Way and back again, all these human days of deep and wild and free.
Two souls searching for each other in the air between it all, longing for something more than everything.
Do you remember? Catching each other’s every word, every song, every moment as though we’d just caught a star?
Some people call it love, the wind that we became, but not us. We called it magic. Love never did seem to paint the light and shade of us quite the way we were.
And so some days I miss you.
Beautiful friend.
I think there will always be days that I miss you.
Categories
What Is Love
As Moon sat upon her hill, waiting for the tide to rise, she whispered to Sun, “Sun? What is love?”
Moon wasn’t expecting an answer. She only wanted to ask the question, because if she asked, the possibility of receiving an answer that thrilled her could exist— a question never asked, is, after all, a question never answered.
And as Moon sat upon her hill, trying to understand the question for herself, Sun’s words fell upon her like the sweetest touch of spring.
“Love is whatever it is. And that, dear Moon, is the only answer I know to give you.”
Categories
Darling May
Darling May.
How I have adored you.
How you will linger
always
like the scent of cherry-chocolate
and minty tea
on me.
Delicious May.
How you have moved me.
Opened my bright,
and soothed my aching
day.
Oh, May.
Ever my darling,
May.
*
To my dearest blog friends,
I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed spending these days of May with you all, spilling my heart out, my joy, my sadness— my everything. Thank you for reading my words. Thank you for absorbing my hidden extras. Thank you for your friendship, your compassion, your insight.
Thank you for your inspiration.
It’s been fun. 🙂
Lots of love, Brooke.
Ps. See you tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. And probably the next. Because how could I leave you now? Let’s see how this blog post a day works out for a bit longer shall we? xx
Meet my darling little sugar pot.
I met this little darling in an op-shop, not too long ago, actually.
Our eyes met, and that was it: love.
Love so great, in fact, that I bought her despite the fact that I don’t take sugar in my tea. Or my coffee, for that matter.
There was just something about her sweet little-cottage charm that told me she belonged at our house.
She was perfect in her own right, but also, perfect for me. Perfect for all the guests she’d delight with her dainty, sugary goodness.
So I cupped her in my hand and I walked her up to the counter, where a kind old lady met me with a smile.
And just like that: she was mine, this darling little sugar pot.
The most darling little sugar pot I ever did see.
Mister darling brown eyes is not the darling of this post.
He is not my husband. He is not my Son. He is not even someone I love or have ever loved.
But.
He is where all this started—this Darling Blog of May, and so must his story be told.
Now. Where was I? Ah, yes. Mister darling brown eyes.
And that fateful night, so many years ago…
***
It was the end of a very fruitful twelve weeks of acting class and a bunch of us—serious actors in the making— spilled out of the classroom for the final time. We were huddled against the Melbourne cold, stomping along the grey of it all, searching for a place to warm our fingers, a place to hold us while goodbye sank into our aching bones.
So. To the pub it was, then.
We were a mixed bunch. Some of us bright-eyed and fresh-faced (me, nineteen then), others weathered and creased—courtesy, no doubt, of years of face pulling under hot, stage lighting.
Then there was him. Mister darling brown eyes. And mister darling brown eyes…well. He was all the lollypops and rainbows. He was leather jacket and jeans. He was hair like ribbons of dark chocolate fudge.
And he-was-eyes.
Eyes so deep they saw right into the guts of whoever they chose. And right now, thanks to the two of us being shoulder to shoulder, those brown eyes chose me.
YES.
Anyway.
Mister darling brown eyes. The cosy little corner. The euphoric moment mister darling brown eyes took my quivering hands and declared his undying love for me.
(Cough. No. That’s not what happened.)
In actual fact, mister darling brown eyes gushed about his girlfriend— who was adorable, apparently—and I nodded, smiled and talked about my family, the weather, ice-cream, fluffy ducks. It was, of course, only a matter of time before the topic of conversation turned to something…serious.
How serious?
Shakespeare serious.
‘Are you fan?’ he said.
‘Not so much,’ I said.
And all the crickets sang. And all the angels wept.
‘Never mind,’ said mister darling brown eyes. ‘I can fix that. I’ll recite you a sonnet.’
He went on to explain that Shakespeare is best heard, not read. Shakespeare is rhythm; Shakespeare is dreamy, lilting, song. Mister darling brown eyes lowered his face and smiled, dared me not to be moved by this sonnet of his, dared me not to be changed.
I nodded. (Okay. I may have tilted my head and sighed a little, I can’t be certain.)
‘Go on,’ I whispered. And I leaned back in my seat and proceeded to fall in love with love.
Not with mister darling brown eyes, no.
With love.
With Shakespeare, sonnet number 18, to be exact.
So, no. Mister darling brown eyes never did become my husband (which is lucky because I needed that title to give to my gorgeous hubby, Dave.)
Still.
Mister darling brown eyes was a gift to me because, without him, I may never have heard about those rough winds that shook Shakespeare’s darling buds of May.
And this, my Darling Blog of May, would be nothing but thirty-one days of blank pages.
Now, where would the darling be in that?
