I step out to face another day.
Crossing over the mist of drops as
they fall undecidely from the gray sky,
I wonder what you might be doing,
where you are,
who you are.
The chilled air strikes my face repeatedly,
forcing me deeper into my jacket
that isn't nearly warm enough.
Do you like the rain?
Can you relate to it?
I sort of hope so.

I watch the sidewalk as it moves
beneath my steps,
both hesitant yet hurried,
trying to remember my dreams.
What are yours?
Do you have nightmares?
Could I help, if I were with you?
I already want to chase them away.
And I promise you, I will.

When it's three in the morning
and the world of sleep
is as far away as the overseeing stars,
Lying down, I'll pull your head to my stomach
and stroke your hair softly
and whisk away the ghosts haunting
your thoughts.

As I reach the warm shelter of my destination,
my favorite song resounds
through my ear buds,
giving me strength,
and I wonder if you play the piano.
Will you teach me,
on days like these
when November begs
we be left to ourselves
behind closed doors
next to a crackling fireplace?



Class ends early today --
back into the rain.
Whatever you're doing, wherever you are,
whoever you are,
I hope you're doing well.
And I hope we meet soon.

And when words fail, what then?
How will you speak,
through a silence that no scream can defeat?

I will not fight to be heard,
but will stand and be seen
in truth
by the eyes who take the chance --
who pierce the shroud,
defy the laws of the parallel
and transcend to my chasm.

I amble on in my oneness
until that day
I am approached from
behind
****** from my realm
delivered from indifference
to confront a face both foreign yet home,
and charmed into the arms
of a vow that resonates within the infinite.

I had the most scary,
awful,
horrifying,
sickening dream last night.

It was a dream that my grandmother had passed away.
Died.
She was gone.

And I
wasn't
even
there for her.

I was told, no, informed,
through the most insensitive,
impersonal means possible.
A simple, three worded,
text message.

I don't remember how much I cried
in the dream.
Or if I really even shed a single tear.

All I know now, as I scribble down these
scattered thoughts
in a handwriting almost illegible,
an attempt to rid them from my mind,
is how I feel with my mind racing through the possibility of such an event.

My stomach hurts, every muscle in my being clenched in a
sudden stress,
a tactic to hold back that urge to purge myself
of all contents and feeling whatsoever.
Both hands are cramped as one braces me
against this abnormally warm and now uncomfortable bed,
the other struggling to write while my forearm
throbs with discomfort.

My breathing is off.
There is no normal steady rhythm to it;
rather a scattered pattern of inhales and exhales
both long and short,
often separated by uncharacteristic
pauses.

I've dealt with death before.
More than once,
many years ago.
(I'm still dealing with it.)

I understand that it is very much a part of life,
and the rest of us must continue on,
void of voice or choice.
It is the cruel awakening.

And my relief at waking to the most normal of texts
from dear old Dad
and the realization that my fear
had only occurred
in the depth of that unconscious realm
ruled by sleep...
I just cannot ever explain.
I can only remain horrified that I would dare endure
such a pain, even in imagination.

And yet,
as the day's busy agenda begins to take over all else
and I am only too eager
to push the dream away
and let it disappear into nothingness
as I mentally prepare for today and this week,
I've already decided...

I think I'll call Grandma today.