An Offering to Ishtar, Maybe

(Note: This was the product of multiple dreams that I mashed together, taking some creative liberties. If I can't take creative liberties with my own dreams, when can I?)

"With these hands," He said, "I would cradle your warm face and comb your hair, like our primate ancestors did, brushing and cleaning with soiled, scarred fingers."

She spoke in response, but from the other side of the square he couldn't understand what she said.

"With these arms," He said, "I would hold your world, gently, for fear that I would crush it between my clumsy arms, sending shards of dreams cascading to the floor and covering us both with tiny cuts that bleed hope."

She seemed to smile, but it was hard to tell through the fog.

"With these shoulders," He said, "I would share the weight of your yoke, pulling and tilling the soil of a new future through packed red clay and soft dark dirt."

Her silhouette in the dim morning (or was it evening?) light began to grow as she walked towards him.

"With these feet," He said, "I would dance with you into the long hours of the night, our bodies moving in intricate patters which could not be defined or reproduced, a dance of two souls unbound by music."

She was closer now, he could almost make out her features. She was as beautiful as he'd thought, even more so, emerging from the fog like some mythical monolith to beauty and grace. The clacking of her shoes on the concrete indicating her imminent approach, personal war drums beating out the rhythm of heartbeats. 

He gathered his nerves. This was it, do or die. This is the speech, the one that would decide the outcome of their lives.

"With this heart," He whispered, "I would love you."

"Excuse me," She said, "I'm lost. Do you know where 15th street is?"

He was stunned for a moment, but he put himself together from what pieces he had and managed an answer. "I can't help you," He said. "I'm lost as well."

"Oh. Well," She said, "good luck then." Then, she walked away.

He managed a muted "Thank you." 

He stood in the square and allowed the sound of the victorious war drums fade slowly in the direction of a road he never knew. When they were gone, he looked around the square and spoke again, to the fog that muffled some sound and amplified others, to the fading light that turned insecurities into wolves and people into angels, to the concrete floor that was starting to make his feet ache, to nobody in particular.

"There must be a better way to do this."