I returned home to the kitchen the way it was left,
with everything laid out on the counter top.
It was such a mess,
of course it was;
we dropped everything as we rushed out the door.
A cutting board,
with apple slices now browned by their exposure to the air,
bananas now withering into nothingness,
and a knife,
dripping with the blood-red juice of a pomegranate.
Or was it her blood on the floor?
I breathed in the scent of the two day old pomegranate;
it was still sweet,
and it ****** me off.

I used to love my Sunday mornings.
Waking up,
getting out of bed
kissing her.
She was perfect,
and made even the simplest task,
such as cutting a pomegranate in half,
beautiful.
I’ve never seen her be anything except beautiful,
not even once,
not even as she grabbed her stomach,
where our beautiful flower bloomed,
not even as she screamed in pain.
She was the essence of everything fantastic, and whatever she did reflected that.
I used to love the smell of pomegranate.
It would wake me up,
and I would follow it down the hall,
to the kitchen,
and into the arms of my beautiful wife.
The pure, sweet scent reminded me of Sunday mornings,
and Sunday mornings reminded me of every reason
life was worth living:
Her
.
I was silent
as I began to clean the counter top off,
the apples went in the trash,
the bananas went in the trash,
but the pomegranate…
the pomegranate stared at me from where it was.
It burned a hole into me.
I picked it up,
and the very touch made me angry.
I  couldn’t bare the thought of it being near me.
Its sweet smell turned putrid in my hands.
I threw it as hard as I could,
its path going through the window,
and the glass made a sound I’ll never forget.
But the fact was,
I threw it out,
and it was gone.
The smell of pomegranate
would never be here again
on Sunday mornings.
And neither would she.

Funny how when it storms,
You’re lying in bed,
The lightning cracks,
The thunder shakes your walls,
And yet,
You feel safe.

Funny how when you’re in love,
You’re lying in bed,
Your heart aches,
The pain rattles your bones,
And yet,
You feel safe.

Why can't we be like grass?
When it gets stepped on,it gets back up

I dream of you
wearing floral,
touching the tips of
summer flowers
& vividly,
I see the sunlight
glowing upon,
streaming through
your flowing-hair.

Your sensuous-swaying
takes my breath away,
you spin
trance-like
& the magic
in your fingertips
makes my whole world
come alive.

I am breathless,
held spellbound,
in awe of your
feminine-power
& your sweet
lady-ways.

Tap tap I close the app
Tap and swipe to reopen
hoping
to feel wanted
to feel liked
to feel desired

I watch the circle swirl in anticipation
(my WIFI is being a *****)
I lay in bed
hoping
to hear a notification
to feel a vibration
to see a speech bubble
but nothing
nothing

It's been too long I've relied on
the tap tap tapping, on
the anticipation of a
vibration of a
notification:
my desperate search for
an online speech bubble

This feeling of disconnectedness
in this heavily connected
community,
I hope to overcome someday

Tap tap
Shut down

Perhaps one day
you'll mention casually
just in passing
as though it were
no big thing,
that a poet fell
in love with you
once, years ago
before she was
a poet even
before she was
ready to be she,
that at the time
you'd not thought
it worth mentioning
lest it disturb
the equilibrium

Or perhaps it might
be thrown forth
with emphasis, triumphantly
when that equilibrium
has been disturbed
by other events
and accompanied by
the expressed wish
that you'd taken
that alternative route
when it was available

Perhaps you'll step forward
and claim your place
in these words
as muse, as inspiratrix
proudly proclaiming
that you were adored
to this extent
that the love
that could not be
expressed in touch
or taste, in immersion
of the senses
in physical intimacy
was expressed instead
in lasting verse

Or perhaps you may
keep this inside
locked away
telling no one
for all your days
hiding this secret
from the world
maybe in time
yet far away
to be discovered
stumbled upon
with incredulity
by some person
you leave behind

I shall never reveal
this truth directly
but there are clues
here and there
that if followed
may lead some
to suspect, but none
that would reveal
with any certainty
who you are
because this secret
is yours to keep
or reveal, not mine

Cynthia Pauline Jones, 17/10/13