the spiders came,
and the blue and gold walls painted over.

I lost some weight,
I was asked about it at your wake,
but I felt like
I was
sleeping.

Cold he was,
and quickly he left
So I turned to cold cans of soup in the pantry.

Cold cans of soup
and
patting my dog

That was about it.

And sometimes the central heating would disturb the silence
and sometimes it would make me feel sick to my stomach

But I know one thing,
and that's
that
Happiness in suburban houses never lasts.

Sunshine, summer, parents, first loves

They are fantasies thought up in the grass.


I love you, he murmured
Why did she die? I pleaded.
The air was warm
like summer
but we lay in the dark.

Silence sits heavy in the air around me,
Light whispers flitter above my head,
Studiers in the corner and writers on computers,
It almost sounds like sleeping or waking the dead.
A dreamer at his desk, maybe he is dead,
          His dream is peaceful and mislead.

And still, we sit here, with books lain amuss.
They have claimed this desk their newfound bed.
And so they stare at me, waiting to be opened,
Wanting to be peeked at, or better yet, read.
A story to be read, but the ending I dread,
          The ending where we are all dead.

An ending like such deserves no better from I
But sadly, these endings are published and read.
And who's not to say their words are not true?
A prophet? Yes, it might be - the story we all dread -
the book in which it is not pretty, but red.
          The ending for the dead.

Clumsy as words, I dared approach,
And over the edge I bent.
A sight unexpected appeared to me
And reeling back with a gasp I was sent.

I gathered my senses, gazed brave as I might,
And the water within shone a shimmering light,
And reflected the white of a man's final night,
Penetrating the darkness of his final fight.

Weary from a sorrowful walk in the woods on a whim,
And the madness and heartbreaking sadness within,
I had long kept a silence, and my heart was burdened,
And so I greeted thought foe as a friend:

Exclaiming, I realized that no hunt, but a chase had taken place,
That instead I had followed dear death, and I wept.
'Twas then that I opened my mouth in prayer
And then I closed my eyes and I leapt.

The sun set sadly on the settled window frame
speaking with dew soon to form.

the sweet singing voices rose from the garden
where you bathed with your sister
while your mother and father drank cherry flavored wine
on the porch in the melting sun.

when the stars began to rain you felt something new
staring up where the sun is commonplace
you felt little better than you did moments ago.

but when your sister,
hand on your spine,
whispered in your ear,
your hair stood up,
and your mother,
and your father,
waved goodbye to the Hendersons going to Florida for the weekend.

Coffee stains,
the same way the dark bruise she left on your body does.
They both leave a story.
One of the stories being a " I was in a rush coffee spill" and
the other story being a, " I loved her too much bruise".
Inevitably they fade over time,
but that doesn't mean that they weren't once there.
She wanted you to know that her love for you was imported from
another person's heart,
but you never knew this or, that the other
person's heart was mine.
But like I said things fade over time.
However,
I still wore the bracelets I'd strung together with
all the words you've ever said to me for quite some time,
that's why I still remembered them.
You will only ever talk about the dark bruises
she left on your body but, never the ones she left
on your heart.
Your emotions,
hidden like the barnacles that hide below the boats
of this beach town.
The salt water seeps through your skin;
it stings you with solitude.
Because now you are alone, because
her false love for you is gone and,
I don't miss you either,
the bracelets fell off.
When the coffee spills its hot and,
I know sometimes the sea stings and
if you're lucky your heart will heal.
But,
I can't feel bad seeing you get a taste of your own medicine.
You holler out "I love you";
you wait for a response,
and
all you get is silence.

Things follow me.
They stride across
Layers
And sit down
As if for tea.
Always in silence,
Always dark.
They buzz in my head
And tickle the edge of my mind.
I hate them.