It was raining and it was morning.
They sat in the car underneath a tree, upon a hill, overlooking the vast cemetery below.  Clichès still have the potential to be beautiful, they know. Intellectual awareness allows for understood symbolism, the death of that which dies at a cemetery, the emotional downpour demarcated by rain, the interstitial distance of looking forward and down.
Silence and language working symbiotically as a stratagem to both hide and reveal vulnerability.  The clichè of their location works with the conversation.
He is sad. She knows.
She knows the emotional location he lives within, she purposefully disregarded his eyes, those eyes that have always stared at her from the mirror, her eyes. The eyes of those with hollow love for themselves. The selfishness of selflessness, the facticity of unfortunate neurological tendencies, the self-imposed limitations.
They speak. He speaks.
She hears him speak, she who is devoid of empathy, she reaches empathy through his words, she hears the thesis of her own thoughts, she cries. She cries because he narrates her perception of herself, through narrating his perception of himself, and she knows the meaning of it.
He cries because it is his.
He looks away.
He says I don't want you to know the things about me. The things that are disgusting.
She loves those things. It's not enough. She knows.
She talks to herself, she talks to him.
She takes his hand, they cling to the ephemeral union.
It stops raining.
They walk into the chapel, the ashes of those who lived resting upon glass bookshelves, behind glass cases. They sit upon a couch in silence. They collapse, against each other.
Two women observe the marble of the mausoleum.
They arise. The women are startled. The women didn't see them sitting; they were three feet away.
He takes her home. They fade into wordlessness during the drive. They look at each other with desperation at a stop sign.
She says goodbye. She walks away.
They walk away.

all that time and care
to look and act like we don't
have the time to care

I feel so stitched together, like a rag doll -
not one worn down from being loved too much,
but one who has been ripped apart by loving too much.
And each lover picked me apart stitch by stitch – undone.
Then I’m left in threads: I am fully exposed.
How can that be, after spending years –many more all told –
sewing myself back together, my needle and thread fighting
to keep up. I naively trusted each lover when they promised
to mend me. What if someone had told me twenty years ago:
If you fall in love, never fully trust them, and ask yourself –
does he love me more?
I didn’t know then, I wasn’t so undone –
I could have stayed together.

© Sia Jane

the stink of decay is a perfume
deliberate, personal
and no-one escapes her clutches

I never wished for my feathers
To catch fire
Unsure of who made me
This way

Losing my brilliance was never
My desire
My finale was
Excruciating

Someone once told me
That fire heals wounds
"To cauterize is to
Stop the bleeding"

This new discovery
Completely consumed.
Becoming anew
Was intriguing

The time then came
For the heat and the haze
These moments both petrifying  
And exhilarating

I touched the dark
Before I embarked
Forming from embers while I
Remembered

I am reborn

The  ghost town yellow evening, I did wake up
in a dream, was strangely familiar, painted by him,
Vincent Van Gogh, in flames of creative fire, who else?
kept  it a secret, until I've stumbled in to, as if it's a well.

I fell in love with a girl in a yellow sunflower gown
on it were sea waves swirling in his signature style
in the blue sky, below her waist was  challenger deep,
I held her by the waist, like smoke in a flux, she swirled,
it wasn't in here and now, in the past or in future.

I wasn't present anywhere, just a thought sowed,
got embedded in her brain. This mystery of us,
Van Gogh's echo and the creative universe we did exist
wouldn't figure anywhere except when we meet.

Show him your knife, oh! lovely killer, he wouldn't mind,

Seeing your weapon of destruction before the bull is felled,

How much should he suffer,not any more swiftly bring to an end

Was your's love?In such ingenious disguises, how clever!


Well polished and sharpened is the weapon, such meticulous care,

For the precision expected, never ever you missed your target.

A gleaming cutting edge, you sure want to make him proud.

Now I  see this clearly, the magnificence darkness processes!


If a sanguinary end of love life is thy pleasure, may thy will prevail,

Yes your love has been expressed tarantula like , from the day one.

The dark angel, with a vengeful gift, you are, the dark bloom too.

Yet another martyr of love, all his pain equals to your one searing kiss.

The most beautiful smiles come sometimes with tears,
The deepest feelings can come with distance.

The distance between me and you
cannot be measured in miles, or kilometres, hours of travelling, nor in any other unit invented by mankind;
it is measured in feelings and thoughts,
in dreams and longings
in "wish you were here" messages sent at 2:32am from a drunk heart who has forgotten the touch of a kind warm hand
it's measured in unsaid words and unshared laughs ,
in skin that has not been touched and tears that have not been wiped
in mental blocks caused by a picture you can't stop staring at
in mad driven souls screaming the same name endlessly
in hearts beating fast at the sound of a ringing phone,
it is measured in empty arms
in lonely walks at night
in the morning coffee poured in only one cup and tables for one at the restaurant
in cold beds
sleepless nights
in eyes that don't meet
lips becoming dry because of the absence of that special kiss.
It is measured in never coming true wishes.

Such a long, painful, distance between me and you
I will always be able to reach you
only with the fingertips
of my mind.