The First

I was looking forward to the first,
the first of many,
the first of ours.
I never expected our last would come first.
Now staring down the barrel
of another year alone,
I can only look back
at the first of our last,
and mourn all the firsts we'll never have.

Think of Me

I loved you.
I still do, in a way
that's new,
or new to me at least.
You don't love me,
whatever,
what're you gonna do?
You know?
But I know you think of me.
When you get home
and no one's turned the ac on
for you
you think of me.
When you cook for one
or wash a single dish
you think of me.
When you walk into an empty place
and can't help but feel the space
you think of me.
When you wake up alone
you think of me.
I love you,
and I know you
and I know you think of me,
I just hope you miss me too.

Homeless

Eviction
from the heart of another
hurts,
more than any other.
Today I felt
the familiar sting
of being
kicked to the curb
with no more than words
and no less.
I feel
cold,
hopeless,
homeless.
Maybe I'm feeling
too much,
it feels like
not enough.
I miss the warm
heart
already.
I wasn't ready.
His arms felt like
home.

Unspoken

Three simple words,
one syllable each,
the entire phrase only costs
one
breath

and yet, not spoken,
not yet. Have patience,
the words will come.
I feel them. Bursting forth
like tears, or an overdue
breath.

I can't be the first.
I must not speak them,
not yet, I am patient.
Yet they hover behind my eyes
for one to see,
They scream in my head,
joyously, and without
breath,

but I can't think loud enough
and my mouth won't say them
not yet, I must be patient.
My body sends the words
in every touch,
in every kiss,
in every
breath

they're there,
three simple words
one syllable each.
Dangerous, powerful
terrifying
and God do I feel them,
in every moment, in every thought,
in every touch,
in every
breath.

I can't say them.
not yet. I must be patient.

A Metaphor (mind dump)

   There is a house in the middle of nowhere. It looks nice enough, obviously it was once a family home, but upon closer inspection one might notice the paint is dirty and the flowerbeds have grown wild. Otherwise there is nothing to suggest the house is unsafe.
   Inside the house is inexplicably cold. The light from outside does not get through the clouded windows. There is no furniture, the walls are bare and cracks run along every one. The floorboards creak threateningly beneath the feet of any who dare trespass.
   Sitting in the middle of the floor there is a girl, holding her knees to her chest with a subtle desperation, as though trying to keep from falling apart. Her parents built the house for her, but ultimately it is her own. The maintenance is all her responsibility, but she has spent so long in the dark she can no longer remember what the house was supposed to look like. Sometimes there is a light on the porch, and laughter, when people visit, but don't venture into the house. When this happens, she is able to escape her tiny world of fear and misery. It never lasts though, and before too long, she is again sitting alone in the dark. There, she is haunted by the ghosts of all those who once filled this hollow place. Their voices ring out around her, so loud sometimes that they shake the delicate walls. It's a wonder they have not yet crumbled, crushing her.
   Over the years, the girl continued to invite people into her home and allowed them to take from it what they needed, never asking for anything in return. The first who came through here took the electricity. Of course day still shone in the window and there was still a fire in the hearth, so the girl did not notice the house growing steadily colder. This is why she sits alone on the floor in a house so still the sound of her choking breath echoes back to her. The last man who came through was there for a long time, he needed support. When he left, he took the internal walls. Now the house creaks dangerously, threatening every day to fall down around her.
   Still, she invites another man inside. When he comes, he bring with him a lantern. This is not the first time anyone has brought something with them to her home, but it IS the first time anyone has left something when they've gone. The lantern is kept in the center of the hollow home, illuminating the damage done by the ghosts. She sees work to be done and plans to fix the place up, make it better so the man with the lantern will continue to return. The oil in the lantern burns out alarmingly fast, but the man happily returns with fresh oil to burn away the darkness. She wishes she had something left to give him, but he never asks for anything in return.
   She lives in terror that he too, will one day leave that place and forget, giving fresh memories to a new ghost that will forever haunt her, like so many others already do. There is no knowing how many more ghosts the house can hold before crumbling. The place is so desolate that even allowing herself to cry and rock herself to sleep like she longs to do could bring it down around her. She tries to hold on to the man with the oil, tighter every time he returns, causing him to squirm in a way that validates her fears.
   Maybe one day they will rebuild it together, and it can be a family home again. Most likely he will leave, like everyone else has. Most likely he will move on and forget. For now she sits alone, haunted.

broken

I'm thinking of a word
that feels a lot like
broken
but isn't.
It hurts like
broken
it feels and sounds
and in many ways
looks like
broken
but isn't.
Beaten might work,
maybe bruised,
lost, or confused,
but not
broken.
It eats, sleeps,
breathes like,
broken
and bleeds,
sees, dreams like
broken.
All these years,
I've thought
the word was
broken.
All these years,
I've defined myself as
broken
because so many
tried to render me
broken.
Maybe I'm bleeding,
bruised, scared, confused,
one thing I'm not, is
broken.
I sleep, see, and dream
like the word
that describes me is
broken
but it isn't,
it's goddamn close,
but it isn't, and

what scares me the most,
is that you can't
fix what isn't
broken.

Horizon

That horizon, straight ahead,
that is my horizon.
No one can take it from me.
Not even you,
with your blank stares
and your doubting
and your degradation
and your guilt.
You can take
my heart, my sanity,
my soul, my body,
but you cannot take my sunrise,
or my sunset.
I have a future despite you
and in spite of you,
I will sail to the horizon,
with the moon to guide me
and return with stars at my side.

I cannot see the stars

I cannot see the stars.
Smog holds me in a cage
so close to the ground I can't
stand. So heavy is the air
I cannot breathe. So far
from here is the sky, I can't seem
to see or think with any
connectivity. Stifled. A
flame choked.
Keep the fire stoked or
it dies. I cannot see the stars.
Tonight my dreams are
grounded.

Edispu nwod

because I cannot fly.
Alas, I could never swim,
pool I could dive into.
it was a giant swimming
the sky. I would imagine
monkey bars, and stare at
I liked to hang from the
of when I was a child,
down. I was thinking today
brain. This poem is upside
understanding, retrain your
If you are having trouble.

O Shakespeare!

O Shakespeare! Where gone is the poetry?
Those words which call mine eyes to open
and my heart to throb with emotion?
Where gone is the meter which pulls us
deeper into every night and day and makes us sing?
O Shakespeare! Knight to my day and moon in my sky
where gone is the rhyme which pulls from these eyes
rivers wept from such deep trenches of pure
human experience?
O Shakespeare! Come to me in my dreams and teach me
how to make such poetry loved by so many like me.
Centuries and more of adoration of your words!
Give me your gift and your strength for I am yours
to speak through! Let me be your long quieted voice and
I will sing your meter with such a passion that you,
O Shakespeare, will be made proud.

Heart and Soul

The beat of the bass

in the car on the way

home, it keeps my heart in pace,

and helps me make it through the day.

My heart is in the music.

The stars above, they call me

from their faraway graves.

Something out there wants me to be

making bigger waves.

My soul is in the stars.

My Mountain

I cannot see my mountain
from where I live, but
I can feel it. Its gravity pulls me,
its winds call, and I answer.
The road to my mountain is long,
but with no one ahead,
no one behind. I swear
I can fly.
The top of my mountain is high,
but there, at the top,
my feet on the ground,
my head in the clouds,
I belong.
The trees on my mountain are weathered
from the winds and fires of the past,
but they are the strongest trees
I've ever seen.
They watch over me.
The nights on my mountain are quiet,
but I can hear the darkness whisper
to me, "Welcome home"
and I know I'm not alone.

Concernant l'Amour

J'attends l'amour
because if I search,
I may be disappointed.
Je chasse pour l'amour
because if it escapes
it was never mine.
J'ai perdu l'amour
because I was afraid
to let it go.
J'ai attendu la mort
I accepted my failure
as a lover.
Reconstituée est mon coeur
new love found me,
and gave me hope.
J'ai encore peur de l'amour
and its powers to break me,
so I cling too hard, and it squirms...

Morning

I draw open the blinds
and brand new morning
floods the room
surrounding me in
promise.

My mother, she says
clouds may yet appear
on the horizon,
but I see clear
blue skies.

Today is a new day,
like yesterday was,
before dark took it away.
But this day is different,
tightly I embrace its warmth

and smile as rays of sun
caress my face,
touching my cheek so softly
my skin prickles, and tickles,
and my heart comes alive.

The night should never
come upon this day,
and I will not live
waiting for it's
descent.

My Blue Sky

Parts of it, yes,

I would undo,

like the part that keeps me

tied to you.

When you've been a while

stuck in a storm,

the sky becomes a 

brighter blue.

So I thank the clouds.

You were a cloud

that I am glad to be rid of,

and that I am grateful for,

because now my sky

is the bluest hue.

I look now at my sky

and I see my future,

and I smile.

Parts of it, yes,

I would undo,

like the part that keeps me

tied to you,

but try as I might,

I cannot regret those times.

Because of the way 

you loved me,

I know where my future lies;

In the sunlight.

Drop to Bottom

The drop of water on my windshield
takes the path of least resistance
all the way down the glass slope.
I watch it leaving drops behind,
bits of itself scooped away
as it makes its way to rest.
Will there be any left?
Is there enough water in that one drop
to reach the bottom of the windshield?
I often think not. But then,
sometimes, I think, maybe,
I'll make it to the end.

Dream

Soft skin grazes, touches,
kisses the curves
so gently it almost misses
but my electric skin knows,
feels yours. Shocks of
the-best-thing-ever
course through my body,
my being, followed by waves of
this-can't-be-real
that stroke my soul.
I shudder. A good dream,
a great dream, don't wake me.
Please, God, let me sleep, if
this is what my dreams are made of.

Untitled

My thoughts echo
throughout my aching
emptiness.
They keep me awake
at night when all is dark
and quiet.
I was happy today
or so I thought, but it was only icing
on a hollow cake.
People have taken pieces
of the essence of me and left an outline
that I can still paint bright colors on top of.
Lately I've felt full to bursting,
nearly happy with the filling I've found
and the colors are brighter and stay longer.
But then the lights go out
and everything goes back to
black and white.
The emptiness glows
in the dark like the new moon
in the night.
You can't reach it
so you can't fill the hole infecting
the entire sky.
I felt warm for a moment,
but tonight again I'll be cold
and empty.

Tired

I should be tired

but I don't feel it

I won't feel it.

Trying to sleep

would mean lying

here, alone, in the

silence, in the

dark. I can't be

alone tonight.

Or any night.

I can't do it.

The pieces of me

I've rejected,

all the emotions

I've ignored 

for so long,

They claw

at my sanity

desperate for release.

But I refuse.

I could try to sleep.

In the quiet. Listen

as they scream at me.

But I'm not tired,

I don't feel it,

I won't feel it.

A Pensive Moment

  I am a writer. I'm not saying I'm a good writer, or even a decent writer, and certainly not a very productive writer, but I am, without a doubt, a writer. With this being a large portion of my sense of self and an accurate description of many aspects of who I am in the center, there are a few drawbacks and complications regarding my own well being and mental health. One of these drawbacks being my willingness and need to become a part of a story worth telling. I spent the greater portion of 7 years of my 22 year long life in misery for the sake of a good story. Normally what I post here is fiction or confession, in the form of prose or poetry, but I feel that the thing I refer to as a "mind dump" also qualifies as a sort of writing exercise. So, for productivity's sake I am subjecting any willing readers to this sort of diary entry. Perhaps someone will be able to relate.
  I spent seven years with a man-boy who made me feel less than human on a good day so that the story of my life would involve an enthralling tale of dark young high-school sweethearts overcoming the odds with their undying love for one another. I thought one day I would tell my grandchildren about how their grandfather wore a leather trench coat when I first saw him, and how his eyes made me think of the great Harry Potter- my first true love. I thought I would recant how he woke my soul from its long sentence in the prison of utter numbness and how his touch made my stomach tie up in knots. I thought I'd tell them how broken I was when he left the first time, and how many pieces I fell into each time he left me; for college, (ha!) then time and time again to "serve his country" in a piece of shit river harbor in North Carolina. This story, is all true. The story I so wanted to write, that will never exist, is the story of how he heroically picked up the pieces of my broken hope so that I could hold him through the dark times and how we would shine together in the light. How we overcame trials and tribulations and how special we made each other feel and how bright and shiny love truly is. That story is the one I suffered for. That story is the one I gave up on.
  I loved him. For some unknown reason I loved the shit out of him. That's part of why I stayed so long. Dragged daily through the fire I held on because letting go would have hurt him in ways he didn't understand. That is what keeps the story beautiful. Tragic or triumphant, every love story is beautiful.
  My only regret is that I didn't let go soon enough. I didn't have the strength to let go before all the skin was burned off by the incessant fire and the resentful infection spread into anger and hatred. As a hopelessly hopeful romantic, I had never realized hatred and love could exist together so closely, but God do they. They twist and twirl in a passionate embrace when they get too close to one another, it's enough to give you the spins and knock you clear off your senses. I had no sense to begin with, so I was totally lost.
  I hated myself. It took too many years for me to realize that he made me hate myself. I don't just mean when a girl sees another girl looking at her man the wrong way kind of hate. I mean I wanted to unravel my own existence and recreate myself to be worthy of him, and he really wasn't that great. He just thought he was. I clawed at the skin I could see, trying to peel away the layers he saw as inadequate. My soul was raw and ragged and begging on it's knees for his approval. All that was ever received were backhanded compliments and condescendingly sarcastic comments on the intelligence he never thought I had enough of. It took me seven years to realize I would never be good enough.
  It took me seven years to realize I was better than that.
  I am a writer. I always have been. For the sake of the story, I stayed in the stew of poisonous self-deprecation and resentment until I couldn't take it anymore. Even then, I didn't leave. I honestly thought that pit of shit was the best I could ever do. Now I'm thinking that's not true. I'm thinking I was good enough all along. Hell, I'm starting to think I was better than that all along. There are other men in the world who would kill for a girl like me. I thought, a while ago, because I wasn't the kind of girl boys stared at that I wasn't desirable. Now I'm thinking past those lines. I'm starting to think maybe I'm the kind of woman men fall for. I can deal with that.
  I think that might turn out to be a better story. I'd rather read one of those. Not where the boy is mysterious and damaged and heroic and unattainable, but where the man is caring and present and beautiful on the inside. Who's to say what makes a love story great anyways? I think every love story is a great love story. Because any story would feel hollow without even just a small dose of that mushy crap. As corny and stupid as it might be. I think one day I'll have a great one. Be it the love of a man, or the love of a child, of the love of a good dog, I'll have my love story, and it'll be one for the books.

Cracks

The lights turn out and there it is.
The familiar face of my old nemesis;
loneliness.
Do I see a smile in the darkness?
Can a void laugh? I swear
I can hear it, in the silence
I hear the delicate cracking
of my porcelain soul
being held together
by the hope of
something I can't see,
something I can't hear,
something I think I can feel
drifting farther and farther away
every day after every day.
Just a little more pressure
and I fear I might shatter.
I can't, I don't think I can
hold the pieces in place
for much longer.
Hands shaking and only
half breathing
I continue to try,
no idea why.

a goal

I set a personal goal
to help fight off the darkness.
I'm not sure if it's working,
or if all the time spent not alone
has given me a little light
of my own.
Nothing original since last month,
which wasn't long ago,
but still, my mind, my pen,
has been too too still.
This, this block,
is not accomplishing my goal
to publish-ish something
readable, on a daily basis,
but the darkness has been
effectively, kept at bay,
so I guess it's all okay.

Closeness

"My arm is going numb"

he says, not moving.

I smile. I've had a stiff neck

for days. A small sacrifice for closeness.

The human mind is a funny thing,

compromising pains of the body

to soothe itself. The things we do for closeness.

His arm, that isn't numb, rests on a rib 

that hurts when pressed, but I never

want him to move, I want him to

keep touching, always, I'll take pain for closeness.

An Observation

Sometimes I feel as if the only way to feel whole,

is to strip the restless flesh from my bones.

Something crawls beneath my skin,

inviting pain and terror to settle in.

No obvious cause, no obvious solution,

only hopeless vulnerability

and the urge to scream myself inside out.

Rewarding pain, mine or anyone's,

misery is a friend of mine.

A shadow of agony clouds my mind,

making light too hard to find.

I drown in a pool of my own self-pity,

sickeningly, I almost enjoy the sensation.

Who knew suffocation could be a welcome thing,

and panic a welcome distraction?

 Where is the candle to fight the dark?

Will there be a match to light it?

When I find it?

Would I use one if there was?

Nothing will ever be what I imagined,

So nothing will ever be good enough.

I would rather fall to my death in this pit of despair

than allow someone to hold my hand

only to let go.

I walk a path of voluntary darkness, 

rather than be blinded by manufactured light.

Too Good to be True

I know fearlessness would be too much to hope for,
but still, it'd be nice to fear less,
and hope more.
If I could have one single ray of sunshine
that didn't cast a shadow of a doubt,
or a dream that didn't have a nightmare waiting in the wings
for me to wake, that'd be great.
Because I can't trust that the next thing that walks through the door
of my life
isn't going to punch me in the face
first chance it gets.
I can't trust that I haven't met a demon
who wears an angel's eyes.
Fear has poisoned the river of anticipation that has been released.
Because everyone knows,
if it seems too good to be true,
it probably is.

They're Itching

I've noticed lately my scars,
they're starting to itch.
I mean, my skin is always a bit
itchy. This is different though.
Its like, when a scab is ready to come off
and it itches so badly but
you can't scratch it 'cause
it still hurts. Most of my scars are still
pink and shiny and brand spanking
new, but those aren't the ones that
itch. It's the old ones.
The ones I gave to myself
when I hated myself.
The deep ones.
The ones I never cleaned.
I wanted them to scar.
I wanted them to stay
raw and purple
and oozing
forever.
They're itchy.
The demons that were locked in
under new skin.
They want
out.

Punishment

A beautiful evil

tainted innocence.

The punishment primeval,

makes gorgeous dissonance.

A soul has been cursed,

so heaven can see,

only when the worst has come,

is peace allowed to be.

In one body two are trapped,

one just human, the other, just.

Until, in the arms of an angel wrapped,

They make their grand escape.

Tormented to the end of time,

when earth will hear its final rhyme.

The Sound of Silence

Your lying voice is quiet now,

it's my turn to speak.

Your transparent mask can’t hide you from me.

You're pathetic. You are weak.

You have no story to tell

because you're afraid to experience one.

A wonderful story comes your way,

but the excuses come, day after day.

Someone loves you, but that's not good enough,

there’s not enough drama, you’re not inspired.

But I see the truth,

the problem is you.

He loves me,

he loves me not,

You make me sick,

Shit or get off the pot.

In the dark of the night you'll disappear,

memories of you will fade faster than your tan in winter,

soon enough you won't exist,

they'll all be better because of it.

Watch Where You're Walking

This morning I was walking

with my eyes on the ground,

as usual,

when I was rudely awakened by a slap in the face

by a bush

covered in pink blossoms.

"Look up!"

He said

with a sigh

he borrowed from the wind.

"You're missing all the action!"

Ing

Spiraling

  Spiraling

    Spirals

and an ing,

  an action

    lifted on the wings

of the ings.

Life

  Camera

    Action words

what in the hell does it mean?

  This thing?

    This current here,

Under the wings?

What is a mind?

  What is a life?

    It's spiraling.

It's everything.

  Nothing.

    Unfinished 

Nameless

Nameless is that darkness which hides in the corner of the soul.

Where does it come from?

Where does it go when the light of a smile seems to reach 

the heart?

Perhaps it goes nowhere.

Perhaps darkness can survive the light,

though light seems to perish entirely in the dark.

I fear closing my eyes.

I fear the darkness that lies there,

darker with every flutter of the lashes,

but sleep comes.

The silence in the darkness whispers softly throughout the night.

Where does it come from?

Who's whispers are those that cling 

to the wings of laughter and stick like burs in the soul?

Likely, they are hers.

The person I was meant to become,

the hidden truth in the back of my own mind fighting 

for freedom.

I fear the silence,

I hear the echo of the dark,

Louder with every shallow breath,

But it comes.

Intangible is the emptiness of my own mind.

Darkness and silence thrive in the emptiness 

that swallows her,

Engulfed in a whirl of fire and ice and nothing, 

she screams.

The person I wish I was.

This is not her world.

This world, illuminated by the sun and full of people,

still somehow is full of dark and quiet.

It is empty.

It always will be.

The Numbers

The numbers,
they're encouraging.
But the mirror,
she's a bitch.
It's in my head.
Where is my head?
What's wrong with my head?
What's wrong with me?
Nothing.
I'm fine.
Am I?
I am
...
I am me.
Who is she?
She's the quiet one.
Watch out for her.
Why? The numbers.
There's something wrong
with her head.
They're confusing.
Nothing's wrong,
just the numbers
in the mirror
in my head.
I'm fine.
I am.
I am.

Bus Stop

The squeaky metal bench was still cold from the chill of the early morning when I sat facing the sunrise. A morning person might have called it a beautiful day, but I was struggling to keep my eyes open in the blinding light of another new day. I silently cursed my neighborhood for the thousandth time for the drunken 19 year old accident that fell through my windshield and consequently caused the morning’s extra dose of misery.

I reached into my backpack and retrieved the mid-century novel I had been nursing for the last few weeks. As usual the words were quickly muddled together in my mind as my concentration slid in and out. Instead of following the mildly interesting characters throughout their moderately interesting social hurdles, my imagination was wandering back up to my apartment and into bed. The sheets were probably still warm, and after a few extra hours of sleep I could get that last bagel. Maybe I’d put some cream cheese and a little avocado on it. Was there even any avocado left? I had almost successfully convinced myself to go back to bed when I noticed there was someone walking up the street.

The usual panic I feel at the thought of interacting with a stranger went immediately into effect and suddenly I was extremely aware. I was aware that the bus was running late, and that there weren’t many cars on the road. I was slouching a lot. I had lost my place on the page in my book. There was a suspicious looking stain near the outside seam of the jeans I’d been wearing for the last four days. I couldn’t remember if I put on deodorant. By the time I had decided to run and hide in my apartment, it was too late. The person was close enough that it would have been embarrassingly obvious that I was running away.

It was a tall thin man, who looked like he’d had a late night. I noticed as I tried desperately not to stare that he carried a worn out guitar case on one shoulder, which made him lean slightly to the side where his hood was pulled forward to block the sunlight. In his other hand he carried a plastic shopping bag thin enough to reveal Chinese take-out boxes. It didn’t occur to me until much later to notice that at 6:30 am, Chinese take-out was not a normal thing to be carrying. He walked with his head slightly down and a long stride that made him rise and fall in a way that reminded me of the carousel scene in Mary Poppins. I pretended to be interested in my book and tried to keep “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” from getting stuck in my head. I failed.

When he sat down my side of the bench bounced just slightly, making a piece of my faded red bangs fall out of my carefully careless ponytail and into my eyes. It made my nose itch.

I looked over at him for what was supposed to be only a moment, ready to give a polite “good morning” smile before engaging in my usual avoidance techniques. Thankfully, he wasn’t looking my way. He was leaned forward with his elbows perched on his knees, pulling an abused looking Camel wide out of his slate grey shirt pocket and up to his chapped thin lips. They didn’t look like the kind of lips that were accustomed to smiling. He hadn’t shaved in a day or two, and his stubble had a red hue when the sunlight hit his face. I realized I was staring when I noticed him noticing me.

“Cigarette?” He mumbled in a tired, gravelly voice. His dark hair looked dirty, but fell nicely around his stormy blue eyes.

“Um,” I took a little bit too long to think about it, “sure.” I didn’t have a lighter.

He pulled another one from his pocket. Silently he offered to light it for me, and silently I was grateful, even though letting guys light my cigarette had always felt a little weird to me. The first inhale reminded me that I only liked menthols, and that I had been casually attempting to quit.

“Thanks.” I said. He nodded.

We sat in silence as the bus continued to be late. I felt the increasing pressure to make conversation weighing down on me, as if someone was slowly building a brick wall on top of my shoulders. I couldn’t keep from glancing at him. I couldn’t see his eyes, so there’s no way he’d notice unless he sat back, but it felt like I was invading his privacy.

I turned my attention to an ant on the sidewalk. There were no other ants, just the one. He kept turning this way and that, apparently confused. He didn’t seem to know where he was going. He probably had no idea why he was even out of his ant hill, especially at this hour. His little antennae flailed about wildly as he searched for a purpose. I named him Garret.

After what seemed like a lifetime, though I still hadn’t finished my cigarette, the tall guy sighed and leaned back on the bench, bouncing his knee anxiously.

“When is the bus supposed to get here?” he asked me. I momentarily forgot what a bus was.

“Uh, I don’t know.” The words hung in the air in front of me, pointing and laughing as I slowly remembered. “Well, I mean, it was supposed to already be here.” I checked the time. I should have been walking into class at that moment.

“Awesome.” He coated the word in a thick layer of sarcasm and closed his eyes, leaning his head on the back of the bench with his arms crossed over his chest.

The silence was growing again, gorging itself on my uncertainty and fear of new people. It disgusted me, like watching a fat man at Hometown Buffet. I felt guilty for thinking that, so I turned my thoughts to my cat, or rather, my parents’ cat. I missed him.

I picked at my nail polish, feeling a tiny chip fly at my face. I hoped it didn’t stick. “I’m going to be late for class.”

“You’re insane.” He said without a twitch. I thought it was kind of rude.

“What? Why?”

He raised one eyebrow and said “You signed up to take a class at 7 am, there’s no other explanation.”

Okay, he had a point. “Yeah well, I skip it a lot.” I said, scraping the last bits of matte blue off my pinkie.

Half of his mouth turned up in a sleepy smile. It was a nice smile. “Understandable.” He said.

“Looks like I’m skipping today.” I said. “Where are you trying to get to?” I asked.

“Somewhere else.” The words sounded heavy. He sat back up and opened his eyes. “But I guess I’m stuck here till this bus comes.”

“Yea, that sucks. Somewhere else sounds nice.” We made eye contact. Of course I immediately panicked and decided to look instead at the guitar case. “You in a band or something?”

“No,” I thought I heard a trace of regret in the word. “Well, I was, for a moment. I sold my guitar though, that’s my suitcase now.”

“Ah,” This conversation was going nowhere. “Cool suitcase.”

“Thanks.”

And with that, I was out of things to say. “Well I guess I’m going back to bed. Good luck with the bus.” I stood up and put my backpack on.

“Yea” He mumbled, staring off down the road.

I began to walk towards the gates of my apartment complex. I thought about the ant, and somehow felt a gust of bravery.

“Actually,” I started. Doubt was already seeping in, “my apartment is that window right there, you can wait for the next bus up there if you want to. I mean my couch is more comfortable than that bench, and I have Netflix.” I was officially terrified, but there was no turning back now.

“Uh, are you sure that’s cool?” He said, looking as surprised as I felt.

“Umm…” My thoughts were racing. “Yea, why not?”

“Ok, uh, yea, thanks.” He smiled again, and picked up his guitar case and Chinese food. “I’m Garret, by the way.” I laughed. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said, “I’m ____.” We shook hands. His grip was soft but controlled.

We walked upstairs. We played scrabble and split the last bagel, there was no avocado left. We had Chinese food for lunch later. I’m not sure if his bus ever came.

The Widow's Walk

This morning, as I exited through the rear access of my domain, I spotted a rather large arachnid perched poorly camouflaged just outside the open window of my personal chambers. The creature was of formidable size, and though I did not glimpse his underbelly, I was sure I had seen his top half before. Last time I saw it, it was frantically running about its own homestead desperately trying to escape the onslaught of apparently non-lethal, yet still painful "Raid for Ants" I had unleashed. I did not have the time or the courage to put an end to Daddy Widow that morning, so I simply prayed he would still be there on my return.

The rest of my day carried on as usual. My classes were fairly interesting. The children I nanny in the afternoons were fairly well behaved. It was a pleasant few hours. I almost forgot about the arachnid army rallying in the garden, awaiting my return.

That evening as I pulled into my parking space, dread washed over me while I recalled the nightmare waiting for me on my journey to the back door. I could feel my heart beating faster and faster in my ears as the soft light of my flashlight illuminated one, two, three orange hourglasses surrounding merely the gateway at the back of my home. Terror seized me by the throat, keeping me from advancing towards the infested path to the rear entrance. My hand reached slowly towards the latch whilst keeping the rest of my body at as large a distance I could manage. I closed my eyes, turned away with my lower lip placed firmly between my front teeth, and pulled up to open the gate.

Waiting on the other side was a maze of terror worse than any arachnophobe could ever be expected to face. Spiders and their webs draped from wall to floor, from shovel to tomato plant, from lounge chair to barbecue, all with the shining hourglass and potent venom of the widow family. I stood for eons paralyzed by panic, fighting back tears of wide-eyed defeat. My flashlight searched for a way through, but seemed only to illuminate my certain demise. Finally, with a map in my mind and limited visibility, I made a run for it.

I jumped and ducked my way through the garden, fearing for my life. Over and under heavily guarded webs and egg sacks, dodging side to side feeling what surely must have been hundreds of territorial eyes on my back. On the other side I stopped and frantically brushed any and all remnants of webs I may have destroyed, and assessed the threat I had overcome. I saw to my great relief that no widow had come after me. In fact, once I had calmed a bit I realized there were only roughly eight visible widow spiders in total along the path I had just traversed. I felt a bit foolish, and yet still oddly proud of the courage I had found to pass them.

When I reached the back door I checked the area for the villain of the morning. Daddy Widow was nowhere to be found. Fear once again seeped into my veins as I considered the possibility that the gap between my window screen and the sill had allowed him access to my private space. Every time my hair brushed against my face or a new shadow fell into my line of sight a new jolt of panic took me. Perhaps the mental torture was exactly what my nemesis had intended to inflict upon me. Regardless, there was a very real chance that the assassin was there, waiting for me to lower my guard, and I was afraid.

As I continued to the compromised safety my bedroom I concluded that upon the morning, I would be avoiding the back door, the garden gate, and the Widow's Walk.

Lonely

Swimming in a sea of people I am alone.
I hear laughter and that brings me comfort.
I see children, one little girl pushes a stroller
twice her size and empty, smiling, and I smile.
There is life all around me. But I am alone.
Home is far away, that is where I want to be.
Home is where I can sit in a room by myself
without feeling alone. My cat is there. He knows
my soul. His warmth hushes the angry
buzzing in my head. He replaces it with a purr.
But I am alone. I talk to people who say
they are my friends. They do not calm the noise that
makes me fear silence. And loneliness. They try
To fill my head with their voices, but still, I am lonely.
Maybe I have found a new home. It is
less lonely in that place. Quiet. But full
in a way. I cannot say. I don't want to
jinx it. But, maybe soon, I won't be so,
lonely.

Afterwards - Part III

I had been cooped up in the underground-ish cage my grandfather had built during the Cold War for almost a year, which, at that point seemed like a long time. I had always thought it was unfair that my aunt and cousins had inherited most of the money and all we got was the stupid bunker, but it turned out to be far more advantageous in the long run. I was more restless than ever and bored to tears, so when my dad went out to scavenge for supplies, I decided a quick trip outside couldn’t hurt anyone. I waited about ten minutes to be sure he didn’t forget something and come back. Then I opened the door. I remember thinking the feeling of the sun on my face that day was the most wonderful feeling in the world. I followed the creek that ran down the side of our hideout and into town so I wouldn’t get lost in the woods. I picked flowers while I searched for a good tree to climb, and splashed my feet in the water.

I hadn’t been outside twenty minutes before I found out why my father would never take me with him on outings. There was a man, blond, thin, and not very tall, sitting at the base of a tree next to the creek. He was crying. I was stupid.

“Sir? What’s the matter?” I had asked him, unsure and unknowing. He looked at me, with red eyes that seemed to shine with relief.

“I’m so hungry.” He said with a raspy voice, “and so cold.” He made me sad, I wanted to help.

“Come with me, I have food.” I was so, so stupid.

He came with me back to our shelter. I gave him some bread and jam and a blanket and he ate quickly and said thank you a lot. I was feeling really good about myself and about what I had done to help this poor lonely man. I was too young, too naive and I didn’t understand what a poor lonely man was capable of when he had nothing left to lose. When I told him it was time for him to leave, I found out.

“Oh no, you’ve been so lovely, I really think I’d like to stay.” The man said to me looking around the shabby little kitchen with greed in his light brown eyes.

“I’m very sorry sir, but my father will be very angry with me if you’re here when he returns, you see I’m not allowed outside and we’re supposed to be very careful about saving food…” but he was shaking his head slowly.

“Your father will not mind, and if he does, I will kill him.” I hoped he was joking. He got up from the table, and came slowly over to where I was standing in the doorway. “You are such a kind girl, such a pretty girl. How can I thank you?” He reached out, pushing my hair behind my ear, trailing his rough, dirty thumb across my cheekbone with a tenderness that told me the gesture was familiar. I pulled away, feeling obviously uneasy.

“Please sir,” I said, “You really need to go now.”

“First I am going to thank you for what you’ve done for me.” He leaned down to kiss me. I saw the insanity in his eyes for the first time when I pulled away.

I tried to run away, but he was too close to get away from easily. He grabbed my waist as I turned and pulled my back up against his body and held my budding breast with one hand as the other worked on undoing his pants. I screamed and threw my head back into his face. His grip loosened and I broke free, running into the kitchen to the drawer where we kept the knives. I yanked it open so hard it fell onto the floor and I stooped to grab the biggest knife in the drawer just as he barreled into me. I was knocked to the ground and the knife grazed my side as I fell onto it, which was pretty lucky considering. He was fully on top of me and flipped me over when I tried to thrust the knife up to his neck, but he was much stronger and grabbed my wrist.

“Now see that’s not very nice.” He said grinning sickly. He twisted my wrist around as far as it would go, but I held on, so he twisted it farther until a painful pop caused me to drop my weapon. He slammed my arm onto the ground and picked up the knife himself, holding the tip of it underneath my chin. “I’m only trying to show my gratitude! Now be a good little bitch and hold still.” He was working on my belt when the gun went off.

I’ll never forget his eyes. Wide and insane, and utterly empty, they stared directly into mine as blood poured from the hole in his forehead. The knife nicked my chin just hard enough to draw blood and he fell over. I was still stuck under him and too scared to move. My dad calmly strode over with an expression that was impossible to read, as per usual, and rolled the crazy man off of me. I just stayed where I was and watched him take him out of the room. I heard the door open and shut and sat up, leaning against the lower cabinets, and pulled my knees up to my chest. I noticed my waist bleeding quite a bit, and tried to breathe deeply to fight off the sickness, but my breath was coming in short, shaky gasps. I hadn’t realized I was crying, and hysterically.

My father returned, and still without saying a word, gathered me into his arms. I wrapped my arms around his neck and sobbed into his shoulder. He carried me into my room and sat down on my bed, and held me, rocking slowly forward and back until I had calmed down. When my breathing was normal, he left me on my bed and went to get our first aid supplies. He put a simple Band-Aid on my chin, and then dabbed some numbing ointment on my side before setting to stitch it up. Despite the ointment, it was incredibly painful, and the tugging feeling turned my stomach. He actually had to stop three times so I could run to the toilet to throw up.

When everything was done he silently left me in my room. I could smell the chicken noodle soup he always made for me when I wasn’t feeling well. I was exhausted but couldn’t sleep.

“Dinner is ready.” He called from the kitchen, as if it were any normal day. I slowly made my way to the table.

He waited until I was halfway through my bowl of soup before he said exactly what I had been waiting to hear.

“What the hell were you thinking Em?” His head was in his hands when I looked up at him.

“I was bored by myself, so I went outside.” I said, ashamed.

“I’m not happy about that, but I understand it.” He lifted his head up and I could see his deep brown eyes. I was shocked to find more fear than anger in them. “What I don’t understand is why you brought a stranger into our home.” He looked older than I had ever seen him, and older than he would ever look again.

“He said he was hungry.” I whispered looking back into my bowl, my eyes welling up with fresh tears. I flinched slightly as he reached out to pull my head into his chest. I think he was crying a little too.

“Sweetheart,” He said, “A year or so ago, assuming I or your mother was home, I might have been proud of you for being so sweet.” I thought I heard a smile. “But you need to be so, so much more careful now. Desperate people are unpredictable, and the world is full to bursting with desperate people.” He let me go, but I wouldn’t look at his eyes, I felt too stupid. I returned to my chicken noodle soup. “Promise me sweetie, you’ll never go outside again, at least not without me.”

“Okay Daddy,” I said without looking up.

“Okay what?” He said.

I smiled, “I promise.”

And I kept my promise, for nearly ten years, until about a month ago, when he’d been gone longer than two weeks, and I had no more choice.

Afterwards - Part II

I woke up in my parents’ bed with a killer headache. I was confused for a moment; my recent memory was a little blurry. Images from what I was sure was my life kept running together, and they didn't seem to be happening in the correct order. My father, my diary, my mother in her aqua sundress, my sister and I playing in our room, my old schoolmates, like a slide show from my old life. Then the young man’s face flashed through my head, and I remembered.

I sprung out of bed in a panic, once again forgetting to think before acting, and the room spun with me. I should have predicted the wave of dizziness that ended up knocking me on my ass. I tried to calm myself, but I didn't have time to wait for my head to stop being so light and attempted to get on my feet a second time using the antique end table as leverage. I noticed as I reached out there was blood and cuts all over my arms, and my hands, and my legs too, one thigh even had a piece of glass still stuck in it.

So much for calming myself. I felt a familiar wave overtake my body, and all I could do was curl into a ball with my head between my abused knees. Breathing deeply, I rolled my eyes at my own pathetic-ness. I really was not programmed for life after the apocalypse.

“Oh shit.” I heard a smooth male voice mutter from the direction of the bathroom.

I swung at him clumsily as I heard him approach, he chuckled.

“Knock it off.” He said as he scooped me gently into his arms and back onto the bed. My hemophobic vertigo had taken what little strength my frail body had left, and I was sure I was a goner. So imagine my surprise when he went back into the bathroom and returned with a first aid kit.

“Don’t worry, I think most of the blood is mine.” That made the dizziness worse, and I groaned. Again, he laughed at me. “You’ll live.” I stayed quiet for a moment as he began repairing the damage. My ears were ringing.

“You’re not going to kill me then?” I asked, mumbling a little.

“I kind of wanted to,” he said, “Every scavenger in the neighborhood must’ve heard you, we’ll have to get out of here before it gets dark. You okay?”

I nodded. “I think so.”

“Good.” He put away the first aid kit after tending the worst of the cuts. “Go clean yourself off so we can cover the bad ones.” He pointed to the bathroom. I got up slowly this time. I couldn't imagine the water in the bathroom would be working, but I was sort of starting to think he knew what he was doing.

Sure enough I found the tub full of water and some washrags folded on the sides. They weren't the cleanest, but nothing was ever very clean these days. I sank slowly into the cold water, missing the days of water heaters and bubble bath, and sat still waiting to adjust to the unkind temperature before gently scrubbing my skin. He had pulled the glass out of my leg, and now that I was done being melodramatic, I assessed that I’d had worse. However the gash on my right forearm that I had thrown out to try to catch myself might have been the worst I’d ever had. It looked like it was sliced open as it slipped from under me, and from my elbow up to my thumb it was still bleeding slightly. I looked like hell, but I would definitely live.

After about a half hour I was as clean as I’d ever be, and got out of the tub. No towel, not surprising. I cracked the door open and peeked into the room where I saw he had had the courtesy to make himself scarce. I went back over to the bed where he had left the bandages and fought off a fresh wave of dizziness as I patched myself up the rest of the way. I put bandages on both of the big ones, and some smaller ones, less because they needed it and more so I didn't have to look at them. I brushed some lingering glass off my bag before selecting my outfit. I pulled a tight purple spaghetti strap over the top of my head, carefully avoiding the bandaged bits, and repeated with a pair of simple, slightly-too-big blue jeans that my mother wore on the weekends. Next came a mismatched pair of socks - one plain blue, and one covered in Christmas trees – and the running shoes.

I closed my bag, slung it over my less-sore shoulder, and opened the door to the hall where a surprisingly pleasant scent wafted in, which made my stomach complain, loudly. Whether the complaint was hunger or nausea I wasn't exactly sure, but I went to investigate the smell regardless. The mystery dude had whatever he had dropped on the floor earlier roasting in a fire pit he’d built in the middle of the kitchen floor.

“Why not just use the fireplace?” I asked. He looked at me like I had just asked what color the sky was.

“And attract every scavenger within ten miles? How hard did you hit your head?”

“Pretty hard actually,” I looked down at the ground. My ears were still ringing and the pounding had yet to subside. Plus I think I could feel my face turning green.

“Will you just sit down before you barf? Or faint again?” He said jerking his head towards the table. I sat in my old spot.

“I didn't faint! You knocked me out!” He was starting to bother me.

“Hold the phone, who was the violent one?” He might have had a point, I actually didn't remember him trying to hurt me. We sat in silence for what felt like an hour, but was likely closer to five very uncomfortable minutes. “I am sorry though.” That surprised me. “I didn't mean to scare you so bad, I saw you through the window and got kind of a little excited.”

“Excited?” Now I was a little weirded out.

“Yea, I haven’t seen a familiar face in years, everyone I knew got sick.” He immediately made eye contact as he looked up from his task. The slide show was going again, images from elementary school…

“You remember me don’t you?” He asked with just a touch of sadness. His eyes were extra blue when he was sad,

“Zander?” I hadn't seen those eyes since they moved to a foster home in the third grade.

“I knew you would eventually.” They turned green when he smiled. He took the animal from the fire to the counter and tore off a leg, holding it out for me to take.

“I almost didn't recognize you.” I said before taking a bite, it tasted pretty good, but I think it might have been a cat.

“Well that’s understandable, after 14 years and a fresh concussion, hell I probably wouldn't have known it was you either if I hadn't found the photo album.” He sat up stiff, looking very uncomfortable across from me in the guest chair and started on his own chunk of meat.

“Wait, my family’s photo album?” I asked, annoyed, “you have it?”

“Yea, sorry. I know I had no right, but, well when the house was empty I kind of thought you’d all, well, you know. You look just like your mom by the way, and I never knew you had a sister. Did any of them make it?”

I shook my head. “Well, my dad didn't get sick. He disappeared a few months ago though.”

“We’re both alone then” he said, appearing almost happy about it. He was trying not to stare, and failing. It was okay, it had been a while since I’d seen a person as well. Things were lonely before my dad disappeared; I was never allowed to leave the shelter. I had only seen one person since we had left town all those years ago.

Afterwards - Part I

Except for a thick layer of dust and an obvious pest problem, the room was exactly as I remembered. My mom had painted the room a cliché shade of pink when I was too young to know any better and had refused to repaint because apparently I was the one who had chosen the sickeningly feminine color. I’m sure I was very close to changing her mind before she got sick. Both beds were still unmade. Plastic animals and Lincoln Logs were strewn across the cutesy flowered rug. The stable my sister and I had built for our toys was more or less still standing. I couldn’t help but smile.

It had been ten years, I think, since I had been in my room, and I couldn’t resist taking a glance down memory lane. I tried not to disturb the mayhem as I crossed the disaster of a room to reach under my mattress and up under the fitted sheet where I had so cleverly hidden my diary. My grandmother had had “Emma” carved into the cover before she gave it to me for my tenth birthday. I stared at the silly doodles of a young girl struggling to establish an identity of her own that littered the cover and margins. I didn’t feel quite up to reading it right then, so I shoved it in my shoulder bag with a half-smile and a shake of my head. I turned my attention to the wall beside my bed. I had posters of angsty bands and hot guys colorfully tacked up with some notes I had passed back and forth in class, movie tickets, playbills, and about fifty different postcards from all the places in the world I wanted to visit, sent to me by my aunt the pilot on her adventures. I grabbed a few of the postcards off the wall and put them in the bag with my diary.

As much as I wanted to fully explore this long forgotten life, these weren’t the things I came home for. I left my room, closing the door in an unconscious attempt to preserve the memories, and made my way down the hall to my parents’ room. The door was closed, and instinctively I almost knocked. It felt wrong turning the knob without permission. The silky blue drapes were drawn shut, casting an eerie midnight glow onto the great bed where my parents had laid together for eleven years. It wasn’t long enough, but then, it was never going to be long enough.

I entered their forbidden sanctuary slowly, waiting for my mother to walk out of the bathroom and chase me out the way she did that last Christmas when I tried to peek at my presents. She had been wrapped in a beach towel; her copper hair that normally lived in a bunch at the back of her head was blown half dry and cascaded down over her thin freckled shoulders. Her eyes were sky blue and youthful, free from their typical dark brown liner, and they absolutely sparkled with the fireworks that went off in them every time she smiled. She wasn’t angry, she just laughed as she shot colored hair ties at me until I closed the door behind me. I made a point never to forget that night. I would’ve given anything for her to scold me one more time.

I opened up the side of the closet that had been my mother’s. Her wardrobe was colorful, to reflect her wildness, and much of it was going to be useless to me, but I didn’t fit into most of my clothes anymore. I browsed casually through the color-coded seasonal outfit staples, and when I saw my favorite aqua blue sun dress, I couldn’t help myself. I pulled it off the hangar and tried it on. She was a bit shorter than I had become, and I remembered her filling out the bust better than I did, but it fit rather well. I twirled once, and then twice in the walk-in closet, trying to make it flow the way it had always seemed to when she wore it. I pulled off my ragged hiking boots and picked out the yellow flats with brown polka dots and brown ribbon bows that she liked to wear in the summer. They were horribly uncomfortable, but they made me smile nonetheless.

I went to look in the mirror in the corner of the room, but couldn’t see very well. So I opened the curtains. When I turned around, I saw my mother. She was a little taller, a little thinner, less womanly, and her hair was a mess but basically the same. I was shocked. It was the first time I had seen my reflection in 10 years. Dad had always said I looked like my mother, but here, in that room, in that dress, I could see it for the first time. I looked exactly like my favorite memories of my mother. I smiled a bit, and I was almost overwhelmed with emotion, almost. That was when I noticed how clean the mirror was. Panic shocked my system and I whirled around to the rest of the room. The whole room was clean. It was being used.

I hurried to the window to shut the blinds when I saw him ducking under the same loose fence posts I had entered by. I shut the curtains, but I was sure he saw me. I ran into the closet with no time to be choosy and grabbed as many t-shirts and pairs of jeans as I could fit in my bag, kicked off the stupid flats and shoved my bare feet into my mother’s old green and grey running shoes. In retrospect, this next move was extremely stupid, but instead of heading straight for the door, I made for one last piece of nostalgia. If it had been in the cabinet in the hall where it belonged I might’ve made it out. When it wasn’t in its place, instead of ditching it I searched two more drawers. The time that took me was enough for the stranger who was living in my parents’ room to get up the stairs and into the hall.

“Hey!” He yelled, dropping some kind of animal on the floor and running in my direction.

I turned back to my old room. Slamming the door behind me I ran to the window and threw it open with a bang that would likely have broken the glass if there was any left. I punched the screen out and clambered out onto the roof. I was running towards the garage where the roof sloped closer to the ground when one of the old roof tiles slipped out from under me and I went tumbling off the roof and down to the ground. I landed on my back with a thud that knocked the air out of my lungs and clouded my vision. Before I knew it he had one had over my mouth carrying me into my childhood home through the dirty yellow front door.

I screamed and kicked at him, missing, but I got him when I swung my bag that I had miraculously managed to hold onto. He let out a muffled “oof!” His grip loosened and I was free, for a second. He recovered quickly enough to grab the stupid dress before I could get away.

“Don’t-“ He started, but I turned around and pushed him hard. He tripped and fell onto our fashionable glass coffee table that shattered under his weight, but he was still holding my dress and I don’t have the best balance. I fell next to him, smacking my face on the wood frame, and knocking myself out.

Mister Roly Poly Bug

Well hello Mr Roly Poly bug! You seem a bit lonely this rainy day. That's okay, it's just fine, mister bug, I am too, but still I'm a little concerned about you. You see, you're light gray, like the ground and, today, like the sky, it would be such a shame if you were squashed by some passer-by. Some people, you see, they don't see the lonely, we blend in too well to the background. It's unsafe for us meanderers meandering around. That's why the lonely should look out for each other, kind little pill bug. Sometimes we need someone to pick us up and out of harm's way, before we get squashed on the sidewalk. On this gray day little dude for you it's me, but for me it's you. So just for a moment you can ride on my shoe, and allow me to feel like I've helped you, until the time comes and I take you home, and we go back to being alone.

The Prison

The first in the row's spent the most time alone,
she was caring and lovely and kind.
She was thrown in her cell when
things stopped going well
and hasn't seen daylight since then.

The second cell down holds a paper girl,
who's pretty and painted and fake.
She became useless when
the stories grew fruitless
and the mask was tossed to the side.

Next comes the criminal who took from herself
who's hate-fire seared from within.
She's angry and spiteful and
her screaming is frightful
and she never stops fighting to escape.

The last one is silent,
never mad, never violent.
She's resigned to her fate and
though her sorrow is great,
it's her own fault for trusting in love.


The warden of this prison's a whimpering shell,
she's running out of places to hide.
She's afraid of them all and
can't run from their calls,
the music won't go any louder.

She huddles in darkness
fearing who'll come next.
There isn't enough left
to get broken again
and she's running out of cells.

Missing

The moonlight dances off the streams of runoff

flowing down the road like a river.

A girl in a yellow hat laughs.

The sound echoes throughout the road.

The moment is beautiful.

Something is missing.

  

A box of pictures in the attic,

they smell like dust.

All the long-lost friends immortalized

in faded colors with happy faces.

The box is heavy with memories.

Something is missing.

  

The night is warmer in his arms.

I can feel his heart beating.

Dreams evade my toss and turn,

remind me I'm alive.

I synchronize our breathing.

Something is missing.

  

Alone again.

Darkness pressing down and around

the hollow throbbing another night.

I hold my breath so I won't cave in.

I pray.

Something is missing.

  

Beauty of the morning once more.

Exhaustion makes it only brighter.

No rain this day.

Blue skies predicted.

Fake a smile.

Something is missing.

The Black T-Shirt Phenomenon

I find it interesting how a simple black T-shirt instantly
makes a person more attractive. One that fits
without squeezing, dripping off the body
ever so subtly without drowning it in
cotton. A T-shirt covers, so one
is decent, but does not mask.
I can see who you are
while wearing it, and
you can see me,
but you still
only see
what
I want you
to see.
It is perfect.
It is not too perfect.
There are no ornaments
to cast implications on your body,
no colors to distract from your expression.
The black T-shirt frames the colors existing already
in your skin. There is a cleanliness about the lint-free blanket
keeping the mystery warm. And the v-line frames my neck, that stretches
in anticipation of the lips that may find it, just above the outline of my black T-shirt.