Sitting there,
Attempting not to hyperventilate
She finds it hard to pace her breathing.

She’s drowning in the rinse cycle of her life

Trying hard to wash the fabric of her existence,
Cleanse the stains left behind from previous use,
She's doing as she needs to.

But she finds the whole thing disorienting
The walls close in
She struggles against the very process.

Yet she is fighting..
With every fiber of her being
To not give into habit
Natural brain chemistry…

Because she knows
If she falls apart now: it will all be for nothing
All the progress, effort wasted
And she wouldn’t have deserved it anyways.

To the tune of "Wu Ling Spring"

Wind ceased, the dust is scented
with the fallen flowers.
Though day is getting late, I am too weary
to attend to my hair.
Things remain as ever, yet he is here no more,
and all is finished.
Fain would I speak, but tears flow first.

They say that at the Twin Brooks
spring is still fair.
I, too, wish to row a boat there.
But I am afraid that the little skiff
on the Twin Brooks
Could not bear the heavy load of my grief.

I need someone to watch
Grey's Anatomy with me.

she laid her hand
upon my leg
that mating dance
that fingertips
sometimes do
was this
a house of spirits
a house of music
or just another house,
no, just another night
that breeds regret

a voice
she practiced
in the mirror at home
predatory
in its trappings
that ebony banner of intent
gripping her tightly
showing off the perfect amount,
all the parts she hated most

tilted thoughts
that swung on pendulums
of midday,
or was it midnight?
it doesnt matter
nothing matters here
where we are all drowning
just to stay above the surface

shes back again
tugging at me softly
a shark
testing its catch
or a child
crying for attention
breath acrid from the water
shes been drinking
to wash away the trash
of men who littered
her life

we all lose ourselves
somewhere
in that slurred translation
swearing we're ourselves
but friend, you know
were really not
we never were
as only those parched recall

I am one such
numbered man
I reach for her hand
but my fingers meet glass
swirling crimson
a color for secrets
my other hand draws her
close, draws her
how she was as a child
before the world killed her

she pushes her face near
only scent and hot breath
deeper under the water

But, with a finger to her lips,
I whisper


"I'm sorry darling, I'm just here for the wine."