My body aches.
My fingers tremble,
My body quakes.
My back is sore,
My heart hurts more.
Love's a builder,
Pain is what it makes.
The Winter's here,
The love is gone.
My body aches.

A tear slowly creeps down his cheek.
The phone call brought him from strong to weak.
The call broke his spirit, left him deep in pain.
He wishes he could hide his tears, he wishes it would rain.
He had been hopeful, that the call would go great.
He had no idea he had walked into a miserable fate.
He started off chipper, started off perky.
His happiness waned and his voice became jerky.
He had trouble speaking because of the lump in his throat.
He felt all alone, secluded, remote.
All because of the phone call that brought the master of conversation down to a novice.
That started with these words,
"Hello and thank you for calling the Bursar's office."

Are you real?
Yes.
Take this.
The buffalo stampede stirs up so much dust.
I cant see through the cloud of dust that chokes me.
It's black.
I can see now.
I see too much.
The DNA, molecules, rushing past me as I speed forward.
I'm in a hallway.
The door opens and white light surrounds the man.
It draws me towards it like a moth to a candle.
I can almost touch him, I stumble through the door.
The fog that surrounds the island is thick.
The laughter of hidden children fills my ears.
The butterflies float gracefully by.
I smell the cleanest air I've ever smelled, like the morning after a rain.
The cobblestone path leads me to the cabin of my dreams.
I smell the pines that surround me.
The heavy wooden door never recieved my knock.
It was opened by a man I hadn't seen in years.
The man looked at me with the same soft smile I had seen for years before.
I wept.
Is it nice here? We have everything we need.
Is she here?
No, but she will be soon.
Can I stay?
No. You have to leave.
I don't want to.
It's not your time; you're not ready.
He pushes me out of the house, the only time his hands weren't loving.
As he slammed the door in my face, I awoke gasping for air.
A sense of dread overcame me.
I wept.
The man I had loved and had loved me all those years had kicked me out of his home.
Kicked me from death.
Back into life.
Back into this world of pain and sorrow.
Back with the ones I love and love me.
Thanks grandpa.

The little flowers smell like dust.
The musty little flowers burn your nose.
The soured musty smell causes the flood of memories to begin.
The love and family shared.
There are red flowers, orange ones, and brown.
My fingers gracefully caress them, reminiscing of the times I had spent staring at those flowers.
I was there that day.
The day the flowers turned brown.
They weren't meant to.
The screams still echo through my mind as they did that day.
The little flowers are brown from the drips.
The drips can be traced like little footprints.
The drips go along the flowers, and up the oak stairs, down the hall and through the door.
He tried to stop the drips, he caught them in his hands.
There were simply too many.
Drip after drip, until the sea of red cascaded through his fingers.
I watched as the drips escaped his grasp and marched along the floor like little ****** soldiers.
His blood was red.
His intestines were white.
Many years later, I look down at the little flowers and can only wonder,
Why do the red roses dry brown?

The wind blows low in the valley.
The wind howls high in the trees.
The wind whispers in the holler.
The wind smooths the grass in the prairie.
The wind tussles her hair.
The wind tells her its secrets.
The wind listens to hers.
The wind kisses her goodbye.
The wind carries her secrets and soul far away.
The wind blows low.

I look out the window at the hardened snow.
I still miss our walks.
The smoke billowing from our mouths, that we both found so refreshing.
I sit at my desk and gaze through the glass.
Is that a teardrop on your lonely pane? Don't try to tell me it's just condensation or a little bit of rain.
I know you miss her, and I really miss her too.
But lonely window, I'll keep staring, it's all I've left to do.