My mind is pot-bound, it’s soil once fertile, exhausted and moss-covered, but in my heyday, I was sought out by women who wanted a sharp wit as well as a handsome body beside them in bed – though I say it myself.
A photographer, I charted my voyages of love, capturing moments from first landfall through exploration and charting to the encirclement of each new island, and then shallowly, I moved on, recording last looks of disappointment.
Island-hopping became a habit, the search for a permanent home for the heart ever elusive till looks went and reputation warded off new discoveries.
I maundered into old age holed up in a rural backwater, photographing literal landscapes instead of those glorious, metaphorical islands of love. My days are nearly done and I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook, with the photographs there and the moss…
© Andrew Wilson, 2024
Over at dVerse Poets Pub, kim881 in Prosery challenges us to write a story with a beginning, middle and end in exactly 144 words using two lines from the Leonard Cohen poem Take This Waltz “And I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook, – with the photographs there and the moss.”