Sorcerer

You didn’t have to wander the desert to find her. She’s changed form as time moved on. What she is now, well it has been there, waiting for you to see.

You’ve not been used to this. Her self awareness, the passion she puts into esoterica and self improvement has been unsettling. You’ve been used to women who were unstinting in their affection and here, well she’s not a slow motion car crash, so although you don’t get the thrill of the fast ride, nor are you hoping someone pulls you from the wreckage when it crashes.

Sometimes it is a struggle. Her focus means you’ll be sometimes trying to avoid the sly whispers of your own insecurities and in lieu of the open, overt displays of affection, sometimes you have points of acute concern and there you have monsters to slay.

But you know, if you went to her with them, she would be a Kali, not from narcissism or cruelty but the charity and kindness she shows others , well as her man, you have to see how it manifests even as your libido snarls like a chained junkyard dog. You listen, you see and the subtleties of her emerge.

Or you’ve got it wrong. Yet she has not dismissed you from her sight. The urge to need with a junkies rigour is palpable but you’re a warrior these days, a samurai of feeling. No, you have fellow samurai to share these fears with. The swords of their words are sharp enough to cut the flab from you. They forgive and demand the best from you.

Yet you still look at her with something divine and feral coursing through you. She catches you looking, smiles and then returns to her reading.

Your sword, unsheathed and gleaming, sharp but the scabbard is held away. You learn to shut up, that negotiated desire is unsatisfactory and yet within you, libido, affection and affirmation conspire and your thoughts are feverish with all the ways you show affection. For all the wisdom, few women truly see that need within men, and you forgive the gap as you know where your own perceptions fail you.

Because you’ve a will to conquer. She brings it out and clears the dirt from you without being careless. Slake your thirst or bear the cracked lips of a soul dehydrated from the absence of warm, summer lusts soaking your skin.

She is not yours, it is your turn. You’ve a grand cause and you achieve goals once thought beyond you.

Yet sometimes you just want to relax and enjoy the respite. This isn’t your battle though, and the furtive methods of relief aren’t going to surrender their myopic appeal.

She is just out of range, but your reach grows as your skill does. Would she let you into her wound if you showed your prowess or, as your fellow samurai share, just understood how skilled you are?

The sorceress smiles and says nothing.

Your relief in those quiet victories grows like a rose on an abandoned street.