Ambika Devi

Once I discovered the art of wordsmithing embraced in the chamber of journal and pen, I could not turn back from the infinite arms of this most tantalizing lover. We tangle and toss daily. As of yet, I cannot break free—held tight as ideas gnash and annoy, disallowing sleep. No point in fighting it.

I never ask where this is going. Together we have traveled reaching many destinations and resolving cliffhangers. How many of your lovers have promised you this? Have any of them come through?

Now that you’re imagining our relationship, I want you to know everything is at risk when my lover and I are nearby. Together we watch and observe the behaviors and patterns surrounding us.

Inspired by flaming desire, I watch as ink streams upon fresh new pages in my journal. Lightning lacerates my vision while exhilarating trumpets blast explosions of ecstatic ideas. I lie shivering on the sofa or the floor, soaking in the aftershock quivers. What human being or animal could possibly fill this space with such divine ecstasy? What would be the point?

I’m sure there are times when I’ve thought maybe it would be better to crawl back into the world of human relationships. But then laughing, I go outside choosing to once again observe the wondrous breaths of the universe.

Sometimes writing sneaks up behind me and whispers into back of my neck, tingling each of my physical senses, igniting a spark in the bottom of my belly. Orange flames blaze atop an infinite lake of emotions. Rapture ensues.

Creativity nestled safe, held in the bowl of my hip bones. I rock with it rhythmically side to side, feeling the increasing glow of combustion, blazing upon the thick water. A red cord moves towards me in a serpentine motion lunging, then ensnaring. Power surges through this new-found channel shooting potential up through the central path of my body, piercing my heart then flooding down my arms, through my pen, pouring out gushing opalescent gratitude in ink upon parchment.

If I had no quill or scroll, I would find a way. Smashing flint, patiently grinding it into a point upon sandstone for weeks, to carve glyphs into palm leaves. There will always be a way. I will always make an effort to rise and meet my lover.