by Dina Honour

Passion sat in a dirty tavern, a belly full of drink. On a dare coughed from the sky, an Orion or an Ursa, a Major or a Minor, she cloaked herself in burglar guise and wrapped herself in the madness of a moment. She drew the flimsy evening around her shoulders and set out in search of Love.

Love was in, soaking tired feet. It had been a long day of unrequitedness, of missed opportunities and chance mistakes, of ships passing un-noticed and over-shot slings and arrows. Another Tuesday evening in a unbroken line of evenings. Outside the mist was tattooing the window panes with the promise of rain.

Passion wound her locks atop her head and set out arm in arm with Dusk. Tripping along the skin of dreams she hitched a ride and reached the edge of town on the heels of Twilight. She briefly stopped to dance with a madman in the shadows and left the scent of desire behind her like a woodsmoke perfume.

Love was in, head in the lap of Lonesome. Outside the wind danced with the daffodils and seduced the stars into staying put. Evening song was beginning to gossip with night and the sunset raced the shadows.
Passion’s sugar words drifted through Love’s window, but Love made no move. She was used to the poetry of muses, the song of gods.

Passion rolled her tongue, felt the heat of her own mouth. She shushed the giggling Thunder with a toss of her hair, shamed the rain with two heavy lids. Her song spiraled through the night passing through the fog like lost and lonely ghosts.

Love was in, flattered nonetheless. Silk songs landed on the curve of her breasts, vibrating for a caress before falling by her tired feet. True-in-the-moment promises caught in her teeth, Passion coaxed her way in. One syrup kiss knocked Love flat.

Dancing on the sheets of a marriage bed, a thousand vows were born.

They slept with no time for Dreams. Thunder called and Lightning beckoned with a crooked finger and Passion tip-toe snuck out of the window, leaving Love naked and alone; shivering in a bed of empty promises, a belly full of hollow truth.

Dina Honour is an American writer living in Copenhagen. Her poetry, fiction and non-fiction have been published in Paste, Hippocampus and Typehouse Literary Magazine among others. She recently finished work on her first novel and in true ostrich style, is burying her head in the sand by revisiting and (hopefully) revitalizing her older work. Appetite is one that she keeps coming back to.

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