it's not finished, its far from it, but I thought I'd post what I had so far. The narrator changes throughout the story, so if you have any problems with figuring out the narrator please tell me. I'm not sure if I like the title either. any suggestions, comments, questions send me a line.
Walk with me underneath the marigolds and suspense. For blood red passion is not for us, not yet. I'm just content with holding your hand. And smiling in your eyes is enlightening enough. (Tell me) there is nothing better than breathing angels dust from your lips as they scathe my forehead. This innocence of us though fleeting is precious to me. Walk with me in the moonlight while we speak of dreams, wishes and your mother’s infatuation with summer lilies. It's naïve I know for our relationship to so cloistered. But, (tell me), is there anything worse that raping a young woman (girl) of her innocence. It the last thing I'd ever want to do, to cut you that way. I know that this won't last for everything’s in constant propulsion. I just want to keep you safe. I love you for just sitting here with me all prettily, dimpled smile shinning from your childlike face, that's such a contrast to your woman's body. There’s nothing I wouldn't do (to keep you safe).
There's nothing I wouldn’t do to please you. Nothing. You brought me into this world, like a new borne babe you’ve coddled me so. Wrapping your strong arms around me, barricading me within the safety of your heart. It’s so comfortable here, under the night sky walking beneath marigolds and suspense. With the world at our fingertips and I know it won’t last for long. I’m not that innocent (I know you don’t think that). I’m not all full of church picnics and yellow daisies. There is this feeling inside all blood red that fills my limbs, aching heart and stomach with fluttering butterflies. And I only feel it with you, when you’re near. And it’s not even just when you touch me now, you just have to enter the room and I feel all giddy inside. And soon you’ll just have to enter my thoughts with strong artist’s hands and genuine words of faith for me to go limp. You like to thing you control me and our surroundings keeping the innocence in, but you can’t control my thoughts, and they’re full of things and feelings I can’t name but send me ablaze. I want them contrary to believe and I care not if it’s the sinning kind of knowledge I am after. Just to be with you to see your warm smile, the kind that glimmers from the eyes and envelopes the soul. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to please you. Nothing.
Why won’t you touch me, or kiss me, or even hold me now. You act like it shameful what we do. And we don’t do anything but sit in the park and talk drivels with Aunt Margie (our oh-so-willing chaperone) eyeing us like a hawk eyes field mice on a clear day, in that lackadaisical way. I wish we did do something, something would be better for then you would have a reason for this alien behavior. Or am I the shame with which you carry on your soul. For its there, I see it. And you act as if you don’t know me. Don’t you know I yearn for the physical, my imagination and thoughts are not enough. I yearn for your touch, your words like Satin against the ear. But you don’t give any, you don’t get any of the hints I blatantly parade in front of your face. You still act as if you were a parent and pain’s me. It pain’s me that your looking glass is so skewed that I am just a child, not worthy of your passion or love that’s anything more than platonic. Movements once so free you rein stiff now. Touch me, kiss me, or even hold so I won’t forget how it is to love.
I can’t help myself, just seeing you shatters the picture child in my mind and leaves me trying to advert my gaze. All the images that berate my mind are passion red and pulsing. I can’t stop them from bashing and crashing down the carefully erected walls in my mind that kept me from thinking of you in that way. The thoughts and visions that made me salivate and sweat. I can’t save you anymore from the world outside us. Touching you is worse for then it makes my thought real and tangible and I have to acknowledge the filthy thoughts that covet me. It shameful I know yet it doesn’t stop me. So I pull away, as far as I can without anyone noticing. For I’m still darling Daniel, painter, photographer, novelist, all around good friend, gentleman whose saintly to the core. But you’ve changed the image, well the image I have for myself. It’s distorted now. Forgive me, sweetheart, please forgive me.
I think this has shattered my innocence; the breath that you created between us has made me the wiser. But that doesn’t keep me from wanting you back, even if it’s just marigolds, suspense and moonlight nights with Aunt Margie. I’ll be good. I’ll be content to sit and watch you paint, or sketch, or even jot notes down for a new book, if it means you’ll repair us. I don’t think any one person has noticed us wilting away from each other, not even father who seems to see everything, but I’m not so sure of it any more. Even if he did see how you are absconding with my happiness, he likes you too much to speak to you about it. Please, bring back the marigolds and the moon; I’d doing anything to take the past all back.
You elicit my hungriest passions like demons from the otherworld they spring like never before into me, contorting my body to their liking, and leaving me breathless and lightheaded. I’ve been thinking of leaving, for maybe the Coast of Spain, I have heard it is nice there, but I can’t bring myself to buy the ticket, pack my things and leave. Truth be told, I’m afraid of these feelings my dear that make me hurt and inspire me at the same time. I started to paint again and not since the days of my youth have I been so invigorated. My dear Maria, my sweet Maria, I’m using you, or at least the memory of you. Every artist is a user. Squelching the lifeblood like paint out from soft skin to attempt greatness, they can’t do it on their own. Taking all and giving none. Suffocating the subject at it life source, you my dear Maria are my one true masterpiece.