Luminosity is Bliss


Is something achieved through bliss


Sometimes you look at what you have and count yourself very fortunate and blessed. But have you ever had a person in your life, or known a person that liked to remind a person just how great something is or how lucky they are? You almost want to reach over and smack ’em. Almost. Then you think about it and realize the other person in the scenario is old enough to know what’s going on and either likes it, doesn’t care, or will deal with it at some point.

Do you like to harp on things for the sake of your own glory? Especially things that are so clear to the one you are united with? Harp to the point of them no longer perhaps feeling so luminous about your presence in their life? Maybe that wonderful thing they loved then becomes something they just can’t stand.

Luminosity poem image by Ronovan H

My contribution to my challenge this week.

Ron_LWIRonovan is an author, and blogger who shares his life as an amnesiac and Chronic Pain sufferer though his blog His love of poetry, authors and community through his online world has lead to a growing Weekly Haiku Challenge and the creation of a site dedicated to book reviews, interviews and author resources known as

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Expectations. She is.

She didn’t know he was standing there. He had been for sometime. What would she have done if she had been aware? It’s not like she hadn’t invited him before.

He smiled thinking about his nicknames for what he was doing. So wrong but so funny. A private joke no one else would get. Others would be horrified. He didn’t care about others.

Her hair caught the light and shimmered. That word. Shimmered. Used so many times, or the word glossy. But there were no other words to describe her hair. Liquid erotica, perhaps? One glimpse is all it took. Up, down, forward, pulled back, or fanned across a pillow. Or better yet, wet in the shower.

But now wasn’t a shower. Now was one of his favorite times. He watched her. Her mind was focused elsewhere, concentrating on finishing. Knowing if she stopped it would never happen. She had to keep pushing, no matter the pain. Once she finished it would feel so good.

He knew the signs. This was not new to him. There, the eyes drifting. The hands moving. The shoulders rounding. Back arching. Her body going limp and the breath goes out of her.

Now it is his turn. He walks up behind her, puts his hands on her shoulders and begins to massage. Her hand goes to his. Rests her cheek against his skin.

Her work is finished and the computer can be turned off. Finally. It’s late, after midnight. No matter how much he loves watching her work. Watching her be her. Watching her be beautiful, and intelligent, more than anything he loved watching her smile and relax.

She stands. He puts his hand up. The look is given wondering if he’s crazy. He picks her up and carries her from her office and up the stairs. Her head rests on his shoulder. Thoughts drift from one expectation to the next. He gives no sign.

As expected when he walks into the bedroom she has drifted to sleep. Yes, expectations. Some wished for, some needed. Sometimes expectations are love. The expectations of being. That’s the only expectation he ever has. As long as she is, that is enough for him.

He gently places her on her side of the bed, the covers pulled back. Yes, expectations. He had known. Her sandals slip off, he covers her, shorts and t-shirt had been a good working outfit for work at home today.

Climbing into his side of the bed he begins to write. Working on the next book that may or may not sell, but a book she will love because she is. He stops and looks at her, watches her.

The laptop is put away and the lights are turned off. Lying in the dark he looks at her profile in the moonlight. Her nose, and her lips. Watching.

Her hand touches his arm. Lips smile.