Writing with Juliet Iwelunmor

The word was delicate. In a class assignment tonight (yes I am taking classes hence my absence here), I joined late but just in time to begin writing the first thoughts that came to mind with the word delicate. The assignment without using the word, tell a story, write a poem, do or say anything but the word. My response.

Some things require careful handing.

Things fragile.

Like a dry bouquet of purple roses in a red vase.

Or moments two hearts stop, unable to see, unwilling to feel, unlikely to remember, the day they flickered as one.

Words are not exchanged.

They are often few in those moments.

Instead, a seething anger looms, the kind that erupts like a volcano.

The food on the table is cold.

Yet one is firm, like a Leo. The other, equally firm, like a virgin.

Anger crosses a threshold, and rushes to open and close, open yet close, a garage door, any door closed in need of opening.

Except the sun has long set, and stars no longer twinkled.

Only anger remains at 2 or maybe 3am.

Next to an opening garage door.

A closing car door.

And two souls now opening a door.

In manner so fragile, so requiring careful handling like dry purple roses no longer in a vase.