I wait with bated breath
For a depth
Of understanding
That never follows.

How can another ken
And lend
An empathetic hand
To my set of misery?

They know not being waken
By being shaken
To the core of their soul
With memories harrowing and haunting.

They know peace
Whilst all I know is destruction.

And yet here I stand
For a hand
To reach out and touch me
On my cheek, my shoulder, my heart.

I wait with impatience
In silence.
I wait.
But I do not make it known:

I crave the human touch.

Laying in bed
Thinking of what my favorite
Childhood memory is,

And I think of that time
Your head popped over the edge
Of the railing on my loft bed,
And you whispered,
"Permission to come aboard?"
Because out of everyone in the family
You respected my dream of joining the navy,
So when you wanted to spend time with me,
You always asked me that,
As if my space was a ship
And I had to give you permission to approach,
And even though now you and I aren't that close,
You've always known how to approach me,
And you don't know how much that means to me.

And I think of that time
You and I climbed out the window
Above our toilet in the bathroom
Onto the roof to eat dinner there
Because we were turning 16
And that's how we wanted to spend
Our shared birthday.
And we sat there watching our neighborhood
As the California sun set in a brilliant red-orange hue.
And then you said, "Happy birthday, Twainy,"--
That's what we've called each other
Since as long as I can remember--
And my heart stopped a beat
At the sudden realization that
I didn't know how to live without you
Because you had literally been there
For every moment of my life,
And even though our lives have diverged
You don't know how much that that means to me.

And I think of that time,
No, not just that time,
But all those times
You tucked us into bed,
Then sat down to read a chapter
From whatever book you were reading to us,
And I didn't know at that time
How much you reading to us before bed
Would mean to me,
But ****** all if I don't know it now,
Because, you see, stories are all I have left of you.
So I write stories, I read stories, I tell stories,
I live stories
Because when there's a story,
It's like you're still reading to me,
And I'm just not ready to let that version of you go.
But you'll never know how much you meant to me.

I am who I am today because of you.
All the bad but so much more all the good,
And you don't know how much
You will always mean to me.

It's a blank canvas
waiting for paint to be
splashed
stroked
swished
splattered
slung
slapped on it.
I've got the canvas;
I've got the paint.
I've got the page;
I've got the words.
But I don't got the muse.
Or maybe I've got too much muse.
Either way, I sit here with my chicken scratch instead of a Monet.

She tells me it takes time,
but what is time?
The passing of moments
that turn into hours
that make up the days
that stretch into weeks
that fill up the months
that linger as years?

It takes time to heal.
I cut my arm once.
It was on purpose.
Deep enough to need stitches
but I didn’t see a doctor.
Instead I watched time pass.
Time was red blood flowing
Into slowly clotting drying blood
Into stiff inflexible scab
Into peeling, pusing dead skin
Into pink jagged itchy new skin
Into scar, also known as memory.

It takes time to forgive.
My fingers run over that scar
and time stands still
as it rushes through my brain:
Time is in my mind’s eye
Four-year old me slipping on glasses
for the first time,
Seven-year old me slipping on glasses
after they were slapped off and shattered, again,
Twelve-year old me slipping on glasses
after they were slapped off and shattered, again,
Sixteen-year old me slipping on glasses
after they were slapped off and shattered, again,
Twenty-one-year old me slipping on glasses
after they were shattered for the last time;
I blink at the clock
and see a life-time has passed in thirty seconds.

It takes time.
And some days it feels like
it was all such a very long time ago.
And some days my heart seizes
like it did at the moment it happened.
It takes time; but what is time?

You searched for me
But could not find me.
You turned over every stone
And every boulder
In vain attempt to locate me.
But I was not there.
You hiked every mountain,
Swam across lakes and oceans;
But I was not there.
You spent your last dime
On a flight to the ends of the earth,
Trying to bring me home.
But you couldn't bring home
The one you couldn't find.
I was always two steps ahead,
Hiding where I knew you'd eventually look,
But long gone before you actually got there.
You searched for me
But couldn't find me.
And still I ran.
Until I looked behind my shadow
And realized you were not there.
You had given me up to my flight.
Head drawn in weary exhaustion,
You went home,
Sat down as the sun rose—
A new day.
And I waited for you to get up and follow me,
But you were still and quiet
And now immovable.
"Listen," you whispered.
"Do you hear the whippoorwill's call?
"Can you feel the sun's warmth?
"Just sit a moment here, will you?"
Two steps ahead I had been...
Until I sat with you as the sun rose.
And I looked at your face turned toward the light,
How your eyes were closed
And your mouth drawn up at the corners
In the slightest of smiles.
And then your hand was covering mine—
Fingers interlocking.
And I was done running.

You searched for me
But found me when you stopped looking.

I can’t concentrate.
Jumbled thoughts lead to
Unfinished consciousness.
I move between scenes
Like a bee flying from
Flower to flower.
A wolf’s dark eyes stare back at me.
Can you see her?
Her grey black coat
Dewy with the morning rain.
My emotions won’t percolate.
The dam of memory
Stops everything from flowing.
She’s back—
My wolf shadow.
She runs with me
From the terrors in the night.
Fingers fill with adrenaline.
I can do anything I want.
Suddenly flying through space
Like Superman.
Arms by my side.
They’re the only things I could count on
To always be by my side.
Her dark eyes grow dull.
A wolf alone is a wolf doomed to die.

There's a soundtrack stuck in my head.
A whispering, quiet melody.
Flutes and violins take center stage
As cellos and clarinets round out the sound.
The soft plucking of a harp shades and fills in
With the gentle support of a French horn.
And so the basses and the tubas grow louder
As the melody swells
Like a leaf blown higher on the wind.
As it begins to crescendo,
I can feel it in my fingertips--
The emotion of it all.

There's a symphony in your smile,
An orchestral accompaniment
To the twinkle in your eye.
Your laughter is the thumping of the timpani;
Your chuckle the plucking of an upright bass.
Your soft conversing is a harmonic woodwind;
Your finely crafted wit, a lively piccolo.
And your hands gently taking mine,
Cradling them and never wanting to let go,
Is the soft caress of a singing violin.

And when you say, "I love you",
I realize it was you all along.
You are the music in my head,
The soundtrack to my life.
And like we used to do in bygone days,
I would play this music cassette
Over and over and over again
Until the film is faded and cracked,
And there is no more cassette that can be played.
Then I would sit and close my eyes,
And recall it in my memory,
For the music of the heart never fades.

Just like your "I love you's"
And my "I know's".