Age

Horatio Hornblower adored her, from the first time he saw her. her hair all amiss. tatterdemalion jeans kissed her, before his lips touched hers. the nose ring would adorn her before his diamond would cruise aboard Cara Caraneena’s finger. She loved the gray in his beard, so like a poetic captain of yesteryear, and the twang of his Southern tongue, like a silver bell. His face like an etch-a-sketch she never wanted to erase one year, for his character drew her in, unlike the young boys who tweeted and texted acronyms, no finesse. And those hands, master of the art of writing love poems. She wrote to him: O gray, trapped in a cage, but for the tamer, jump through the hoop, meet me at the lover’s table. He wrote back: How lovely the lines, your fingers slender, touch mine, with yours forever. Together they wrote. Forever they could not apprehend, but two pairs of eyes glistened through time. Cloistered in their palace, the old-fashioned carnation and the wild daisy portrayed flamboyantly upon a timeless canvas. The murmurers and whisperers, reside outside the pearly gates, with puckered lips just kids and old goats, painted with bitter-green faces.