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My name is Red and I am nine months pregnant.

I love my story because it is true as our imagination and that is my favorite truth.

I love it still despite knowing that no one believes it, not even him. I don’t blame him; it is rather incredible.

I love my incredible story and I am nine months pregnant.

.~.

We met at home.

We created home, made it, built every wall and every window with our bare hands and naked minds.

 

Close is the distance between your eyes but for us, it was only a word, weak and fragile. We were never close; we were together. Only and all together. Our together was the most magic feeling; the magic of our together made us.

 

Sharing time was our soul. The moments we shared made us and all time stood still gazing at our talent, we – talented as nothing else – spun time and danced to its music as the fabric unraveled.

 

With so much love came a flood of fear.

He thought we would die if we lived.

I thought touching, merely touching, would not survive our fire and we would not die, no, we would burn ourselves into stars.

 

And so it was. Handwritten letters across seas of space and poetry flying, roaming our minds but never heard. Apart together.

Two years of us then, one day, I was not red.

My doctor said: You are pregnant.

We never touched.

You are pregnant, two months pregnant.

We never touched.

Congratulations. You are pregnant.

And we never touched.

 

I went home and uttered the words. I am pregnant.

He is a man; his waves of fury wrecked the morning and left me with no sunlight, not enough for us both.

 

I swore I was as virgin as our immaculate bed.

I swore I was as virgin as our dreamy eyes, our dreams, us.

I swore but he is a man, yes, a poet, an artist, a lover, but above all, a man. He is the man I loved and we were burning.

 

Suddenly all his clocks shattered and mine sang on alone; a sad solo.

 

The months passed like months, long and dreary as all months without him. But it no longer mattered. My growing belly, feeling my growing belly, made us all over again. The new soul within infused me with hormones unlike all his poetry, any poetry. One feeling unfelt before now completed me, the new life within me made me whole and I prayed.

 

I prayed every time she kicked – I had this strange intuition she awaited – that she would have his eyes. I prayed every time I felt sick that she would have his hands. I prayed every time she danced that he would realize she was his.

She was ours.

All the love was ours and now hers, too. We made love, yes, we made her. And she made us all over again.

I prayed he would know.

.~.

My name is Red and I am giving birth.

.~.

I woke up today feeling him, back. I could hear his poetry all around me, his eyes in the skies above watching over me, his hands embracing all the space between us. But he was not back; the mail box was dusty and empty like yesterday.

 

The feelings were not lying; feelings never lie.

His poetry, his eyes, his hands, they were back, within me in all ecstasy and love.

 

The feeling.

She was coming.

.~.

She is coming. I can feel his verses crawling out of me, his excited eyes wandering beyond my skin, his soul dancing through me.

 

I am not screaming, this is not labor. I am not screaming, only breathing.

 

A single gasp and the world bows beneath my feet for she is coming. From between my legs a blinding light is born. She travels like the wind, like spirits through every living organism, like music in the trees, like his poetry, pungent and poignant.

And past the gasp, it is over. It is beginning.

Passion is here.

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