“ Lygerastia “

                                           The   condition    of    one    who    is   only
                                           amorous    when    the    lights    are    out.

                  it didn’t happen often. there was nothing frequent about it. by definition, it was a rarity. the kind you cherished and accepted for all its fleetingness. the kind you learned not to take for granted. it happened on the blackest nights when the light was gone and the moon was dim. a bed no more occupied than it normally was, suddenly would  become overcrowded, as if a no vacancy sign was placarded above it. a depression of weight would shift the bed as warm hands sought warm skin. sometimes that skin was bare, others it was clothed or draped with hair. 

                                   only once was the silence afforded by darkness broken.

                                 “ what are you doing? “

                                                                                           “ what do you think? “   

                                 “ are you sure? “

                                                                                             “ i’m here, aren’t i? “

and then no more questions came. they were no longer needed.

                              to question was to be uncertain, and uncertainty had no part in whatever they were.

                       in spite of accepting these chance happenstances, a drop of hope remained (at least in one half the pair). the sun would fall, and so would that drop. it settled when dusk did. but hope, it seemed, made for strange bedfellows. it was there in the drawing of dark, heavy curtains and in the extinguished glow of candlelight. it was in the scent of burnt wick that hung in the room for the windows were firmly shut. it was her belief that night air could carry the moonlight with it and scare her hope away.

                      in the absence that came years later when hope dwindled, longing was it’s successor. longing for what, or who, would never come. not by choice, nor preoccupation. but force. it was the reason beds ceased to be warmed and skin to be touched, caressed and kissed. it was the reason shoulders were looked over at every turn. it was a loss mourned and grieved and never forgotten. it was her one demon. her one regret. her one abysmal shadow.

                        it was the reason she never slept in the light again
                                and it bore the name dorcas meadowes.