My words come out better

when you are with me.

When you are gone,

I cannot form a coherent thought.

Agony, sheer agony of mind

Screaming at whiteness,

Longing for you

to say something to me.

You come and go

when you please.

You’re cold-hearted

fickle and rude. But when

you’re sweet?

You’re decadently so.

When you’re loving,

You wrap yourself in my

mind--you never let go

Promise me one thing?

If you’re going to go again,

Give me some warning.

That way, I’ll have a pen in hand

when you come knocking at my door.

Her evanescent soul suffers.
Love, sweet love, as sweet as honey,
Sent from Heaven above.
In the garden of her thoughts,
The young woman cries for the love she lost.
Though she is unaware that he is beside her,
Protecting her while her tears fall upon the lilies.
She makes the lilies her bed
She looks upon the sun.
She cries out
“Are you no longer here?
“I recall the days when you enveloped me
In your love.
If I die, will my days forever remain
In happiness and peace?”

Forgotten Portraits

She listens to the wind gently hush about the corridor, kissing the young girl’s alabaster cheek as she floats like a free bird through the corridor of some mansion along the coast of  frigid Maine. She sighed, looking at old, forgotten portraits. There is a new portrait. Her mother’s blue eyes are a pool of deep, oceanic blue. Tears of sadness seem to be forming from her beautiful, sorrowful, intensely painful eyes. It was the only way she could remember her past. She smiles as she thinks of her mother, probably sleeping somewhere upstairs. She misses her mother dearly, though her memory is leaving her slowly. Death can do that. She floats through the wall separating her and her mother. Sees her mother sleeping contentedly like a beautiful newborn baby. Her heart gushes with a wave of complete ecstasy. It all comes crashing down when, in an instant, she sees another child resting close beside her. A little boy, wrapping his arms around his mother, seeking protection from closet monsters. The girl, looking over them, wails in pain. Replaced. Forgotten. She feels her soul slowly leave the mansion as the mother seems to wave to her dead child in her sleep. Gone. Never to be seen again.

The sun-filled corridor
Burns brightly in the heat of
That ephemeral, sweltering season.
She sits at the edge of the hallway,
Looking at the other side wistfully,
Her eyes seem to be reaching out to the other side.
To just be on that side for one moment;
To be nearer to the light, instead of staying in this place
of darkness. Heart filled with despair, the streams from the river
Fall freely down her alabaster colored face.
Her hands reaching out, pleading for a warm touch,
A Valentine embrace; a Christmas kiss under the mythical mistletoe.
People with their eyes hooked to their silicate screens
Ignore her. Even she calls out to them for attention, but they don’t
Hear. Their minds are too far into themselves. They don’t care. Nor
They ever will, much to her chagrin.
The silence kills her the most.
It’s the antithesis of cacophony.
Would she rather a discordant note pervading
the entire room than suffering through silence?
She still remembers the day she lost her voice.
The day she felt that the world was coming to an end because she wasn’t
Good enough for the masses of mainstream people who never lose
Anything but hours of sleep.
This girl can’t lose sleep because she never can sleep.
She can’t feel anything. She can’t taste the sweetness of the chocolate logs
That stay on the table near the Christmas tree. She watches as her old family
Savours every dark, sugary, nearly sinful taste of it. She can’t feel the texture of
The wall. She can’t even see past the house. She can never leave. Not since that
Fateful day. Do they still remember their daughter? Has she become a distant,
yet inevitably ephemeral scrapbook remnant?

Cloudy coffee on a rainy day
The saxophone’s honeyed voice echoing
Sitting, sighing, waiting for the sun that
Never will shine
Walk through that coffee-house door.
I’m tired of waiting.

There are tears on the other side
Of that glassy wall
Black umbrellas
Gloomily trotting back and forth
To where they need to go
Still, I sit here and wait for the sun
To come out again.

Gliding over glass
Gently, softly, sweetly
Each movement sets a new one into motion
Each touch
Gently, rockingly, and feelingly
All rolled into one emotion
Fingers glide over the glass
Until it becomes no more.