Our
fingers,
35
years
fatter . . .
still,
wearing . . .
loving,
our
vows.

Another sleepless night
I lie here with my mind racing
at 110 miles per hour
Thinking of all the "what if's..." in life
but the one that seemed
to stick out the most,
the one that played on a
continuous agonizing loop in my head was
"what if he actually loves me back?"

Silence you are a curse meant only for wicked wicked men.
why do you treat me as though i were some such person?
that i should be banished to Siberia and left to live forever cold and never alone, always with crushing frozen winds howling in my ears!!?
why do you hate me Silence?
god i must sound like such a whiner, a complainer, a stupid spoilt ungrateful brat.
should i say thank you? thank you for holding my insides in you fists and twisting!? yelling at me YOU AREN'T GOOD ENOUGH!? WELL IF IM NOT ENOUGH THEN HELP ME !

help me.
help me sort the thoughts in my head into organised files.
smart. shallow. self deprecating.
god !
"you have to stop hating yourself so much!" you say whilst your eyes, like daggers, stab into my heart and mind, chipping away at my naked insecurities.

it's the silence that does these things to me.
beautiful serene silence that splits my mind and shakes my very being till the sound of my footsteps is so loud i. can. not. breath! !!!!
WAKE ME UP IN HEAVEN !!!!

wake me up in heaven god, so i can hear your gentle words talk me back to quiet calm serenity with out silence.
that i may lie forever listening to the song of angels filling this hole in my soul.
the hole where soft becomes panic and tap tap tap becomes pain pain pain make it stop!
make. it. go. away. god.
sing to me.
sing me awake and out of this silent nightmare.

When was the last time
I felt a raving hunger for life?
When had I but an eternity in moments,
on the edge of something vastly different?

How was it me and not you
who staked her soul high
on rolling hills of green,
took long draughts to savour, to condense
the weight of the world into one precious drink,

cup the shortest days in her palm and release them,
for her thoughts to balloon into the wild?

The delectable now—
ripe as berries for plucking in winter,
and all things, like music
must peter
into silence.

So I suppose my question to you
is not concerned with
the stack of newly-minted green in your pocket,
nor the fleet of shiny cars, but
your pure self, simply being.
It’s prodding the heart,
a tiny critter fluttering with wings, wondering:

when will you ever get a second chance at this—
all this storm
and inexplicable happiness—

or will you
go hunting for things,
whirling at mere traces
of power in your name—

or will you turn around
only to find a life
or a lie,
staring back wide-eyed
in endless shame?

© BT