The leaves will soon turn
shades of auburn
for the twenty fourth time
in my life.
Darkness descends earlier now
than it did only a week ago.
I understand autumn
but I do not find comfort in that.
Some days you can feel her
clinging desperately
to the warmth of the sun
but she was not granted
that power.

The days roll on
and slowly her grip is gone.
Death prevails through the lands
planting frost where life once grew.
The birds don't quite sing like they used to.

But earth read the book of living
and knows when the magnolias must bloom.
I sit with her, my mother earth,
in hope she will one day
impart me her wisdom.
For I cling desperately to the sunshine
when I am blessed its presence,
but I too was not granted that power.
I know no winter,
only the storms of Jupiter
and I fear one day he will take me
before I learn
when my magnolias must bloom.

Satin ribbons
streaming thighs
seedless apple womb.

Fire of womanhood
birthing passion
burning lust.

Cherry stained lips
making love
to velvet glasses.

***** eyes
siren for Mars
tumid ***.

Blooming roses
slippery as silk
sigh in red.

My Saturdays belong
to a quaint Parisian cafe.
I only have to think about carrying coffees
and baguettes
and they pay me for it.
It's the cheapest therapy I've had.

I've come to know some of the regulars.
Some days I wish
to tell them I love them
and I don't quite know why.
I suspect they remind me
in some part of myself,
or how I wish to be.

An almost elderly lady
always comes alone.
Her hair still retains some of her blonde youth.
She orders two very weak flat whites
and sits for hours,
writing letters to distant loves
and reads the paper.
I clear her cup
and she smiles
with both her lips and her eyes.
She makes you feel like your job
means something more than it probably does.
I bring her a second coffee,
a very weak flat white.

In the afternoons
a couple comes in for coffee.
She is quiet,
the artistic type,
and wears their son in a sling.
A sweet little thing with cherubic cheeks.
The father is a darling man
with a softness many men resist.
I watch the way his eyes sparkle
when he tells me of his sons milestones.
I make an effort to see them smile,
bring them water on hot days
or just talk.
But sometimes I leave them be,
watch them from a far,
and let myself be swept up in their love,
before they leave.

My Saturdays belong
to a quaint French cafe
with dark timber floors
and French antiques.
I haven't quite mastered the art of conversation
but I'm adept in the science of smiling
and that's enough to get me by
for now.

Most mornings we awaken
by the call of your alarm.
You groan, rub your face,
and get ready for work.
I cuddle my son a while longer.

Occasionally you'll hit snooze
over and over.
You don't mind being late.
The touch of your hands
grazes my skin and caress my *******.
We curl together
and slip slowly into the morning.

Every so often
you'll spring out of bed like a hurricane.
A missed alarm.
You curse my son
for keeping you up all night
and hasten to your car.

Every morning
I'll splash cold water on my face
while coffee brews in the kitchen.
I stir two spoons of sugar,
and look to the basil on the windowsill.
She's happy as long as I water her.
I wish I was that simple.

Somewhere between not yet and no longer.
Do you know it?
You can find me there.
Sit, please, tell me how you hurt.
Share with me all the thoughts that keep you up at night,
and indulge me in the little quirks you've mastered
to fill that space between not yet and no longer.
I have cigarettes and all the time in between.

I believe some people were born to be lonely,
and I'm believing more and more we were born to be seen,
and not understood.
But I don't want to be seen or understood.
One is too humble,
the other too grandiose.
I long for some place in between -
I long to be heard.
What an incredibly lonely place that is.

I know not how to remedy the gaps
between two opposing chemicals.
Too happy.
Too sad.
Too alone.
Too needy.
The cycle goes on and carries me from here to there,
too quickly,
or too slowly.
I just do what I'm told and take my pill.
'ONE at night'
and self medicate with caffeine and nicotine in between.

Now I smoke more than I ever have.
I don't know if I'm trying to fill a space
or **** something inside of me.
Either way it passes the time between now and finding out,
between not yet
and no longer.

My body burned
- a fire I'd never known.
The pools in my eyes
commanded me to swim,
my heart wished to lay down
beside him,
but instead I just drove.

Headlines that read
Missing Man From Mt Martha
circulated for days.

She told me he'd often spoke of running away,
and her love for him clung fiercely to the fairytale
in vain.
Perhaps we should have known better,
but the tales fooled us.
Prince Charming will save the maiden
but who is going to save him?

The floors caught me
as I collapsed under
the weight of a phone call.

They found him
in romantic slumber
among the forest -
a tree and his throat
playing tug of war
with a length of rope.
It's hard to say
who really won.

The chaple was too small
to cradle all who loved him.
Red work shirts lined the doorway
like poppies.
Friends wore top hats
embellished with ribbons
and sunflowers.
Sisters consoled their grief
in suits and coloured bow ties.
An old music teacher played a violin,
so haunting and beautiful.

I've never known grief.
Memories of his smile
and hazy nights in his car
have seen my every sunrise since.
I see him in strangers
and passers by on the street
and my heart stops
in these fleeting moments
of illusion.
Resuscitated by reality,
they're gone as quickly
as they came.

I often think I should visit his grave,
place a flower on his tombstone
or just have a conversation.
I regret that only after he'd died
I realised
we might have understood each other
better than we knew.