I’m lying here succumbed by darkness
as you message “I miss you” for the hundredth time this week.
It’s become our natural state of being.
“Good morning” (I dreamt of you)
“What’s up?” (I wish you were here)
“How was your day?” (I need your hugs)
“Good night”
“I love you”
and oh yeah,
I          miss          you.

I’m here, passing the days by doing my thing
and you’re there, doing yours,
all the while with the other at the forefront of our thoughts,
dreaming of days we’ll begin and end each day
tangled together.

I don’t know why but
today has been particularly difficult to endure alone.
Unable to allow myself the solace of sleep,
a usual occurrence,
I fight the knot in my stomach as it forces tears to blur my vision.
I’m not sad, I’m not angry,
I’m not even hurting,
I’m just numb.
And that hurts even more than pain of daily life,
the pain of missing you.
I read the words of your desires, of days I’ll wake to forehead kisses
and we’ll shower together,
parting shortly to pursue other goals before
reuniting each evening,
finally falling asleep with my head on your chest
and arms tightly wound around each other
as I listen to the thump of my favorite song:
your heartbeat.

Briefly, the wall of numbness collapses
under that wave of yearning,
and the bed yet again becomes entirely too vast
and too desolate
for my frigid bones and weary mind.

God ****** I need you here.

They gave her the world
then knocked it from her hands,
and told her she was stupid for dropping it.

Tell me a story.

Of two young people,
a nondescript guy and girl,
crossing paths yet again for only a short time.

Tell me a story
where he found a reason to stop
and look, really look,
before cautiously reaching out.

And she,
in search of that recognition
that once came with glances in the mirror,
found what she was looking for
and even more than that.

Tell me a story
of infinite blue eyed stares,
interlocked fingers,
midnight embraces
and rainfall on locked lips.

Of a stack of scribbled notes
stored on the stand next to the bed
and so many secretive smiles,

the calming of a storm
and a home, finally,
a home within encircled arms.

Of bringing to life
the fire inside
that had for years been nothing
but submissive embers,

of lives gone from a simple
Hello
to I miss you; don't let go.

Where he taught her to love
first herself,
and then another.

Tell me a story
of happiness
that has no ending.

Tell me the story of us.

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.

She refused to acknowledge the
abandoned carnival
that was her past.

A childhood stuck at a silent standstill;
all it took was the admission of
one
for the melodic music,
haunting memories
and porcelain faces
to come flooding
out of the darkness
and back
to a life of nauseating
nostalgia.

She instead preferred
to pack it all in boxes
and hide it
under a giant tent of
secrets
marked
with a sign that warned
“No Trespassing”
to probing eyes.

In the end, that’s all
they ever turned out to be.
Curious minds, eager
to pull her apart and leave her lie
in pieces.

Content to play the game of charades
and
disappear at the
midnight
of her lonely masquerade.

It happened every time.

And she’d learned her lesson.
She was safe
only when floating hand in hand
with her dreams.
In peaceful sleep
came the promise of the
future.
Whether true
or not,
it was the solace she clung to
desperately,
the arms she trusted to
break
her
fall.

It was the dignity with which she gracefully carried herself through life.

A thought occurs,
trailing through mind,
body and
breath.
Pen is touched to paper,
anticipating,
then freezes.

Nothing.

That single opening line vibrates
through the silence,
a plea to be acknowledged,
expressed.

But,
a powerless leader
of an illusory accompaniment,
words crumble to
scattered sonants
that remain voiceless,
and finally fall to
faithless piles
of
consonant
filth.

Perhaps then
it is not the time
for concrete concepts,
but for those of more
complexity.

Such cannot be fathomed
into speech, or
even hastily scrawled.
They are felt
without sight
or sense entirely,
and only completed upon
the final emblem,
the lowering of the means,
the posed close of the
dance.

All meant
to be interpreted,
yet not understood.  
Appreciated in shrouded  
mystery,
and impressed
upon lives
for the uncovering
of a
     revived
          revelation.

Melodic perfection winds through my ears
and finds my heart.
Authentic purity overcomes me
in the length of a cleansing sigh.

I am an extension of the music.

Let me fall through the lush lyrics
as they slip into nothingness,
chased by whispers of rhythms
that bow to the soft,
solo sad note.

Standing alone,
it is that suspended heartbreak
that becomes my very salvation.
I am captivated and hang motionless,
unable to control the cry for solace.
The silence that follows
carries naught
but a trembling tear.
Its slow, deliberate splash
deprives me of breath
and depraves the scant sanctuary
that is so painfully fragile.
The truth is now sustained;
We are the composition.

Awaken what is hidden
for a higher reminder
and walk me,
dance me,
romance me to the night’s contentment.
Only then do the wandering secede
to the late goodbye conveyed
by the instrumental vow
of the final vibrato.

(They were for us, and us alone.)*


The rain, it is my comfort,
when I sit, alone, in darkness,
my thoughts completely consumed
by you.

I lay sprawled,
flat on my back,
feet up, resting against the cold hostile wall,
stubborn red hair flowing tangled beneath me,
and wonder, how might life be different,
had we not parted from each other's worlds,
had we dared to be brave, dared to be strong,
looked life square in the eyes, hand in hand
and made a run for it.

Made a place in this world,
for us.

I think about our share of love for storms.
Our way of being soothed in the dead of night,
by a steady, unmistakable rhythm carrying on
just outside the window.

It made us feel safe. It made us feel as though
our place really did occupy this land,
somewhere,
and we,
in our youth, could face anything.
Together.

I try not to regret, but do anyways,
the paths we chose instead.
Separate ones, leading in opposite directions,
while still confining us under the same sky,
leading to a point of ignorance,
a point of near unrecognition.

I dream of another choice, one that brings us back,
to the people we once were -- but in secret, only for each other.
This very moment might then not even exist.

But then the thunder calls, pulling me back to my true place, and that's when I remember:

that is not my reality.

You sit, you watch. You wait;
a cloud of hope misted over your eyes.
The passing of time taunts and teases,
but to its dismay you remain unresponsive,
until it bores of its sore attempts and progresses.
Your figure fades to the background of surroundings.


Your story has a beginning,
but no end.
How long have you waited for the hand holding the pen
to return with your “happily ever after?”

What will you do if it, too,
has gone with time,
never to make itself renown
amongst those who have ignored your existence for so long now?


I know what you're missing.
I know that you know it, too.

So stand.

Climb out of the lonely hole of emptiness that slowly engulfed you,
all those years ago.

That hand?
It's not coming.
So instead,
I'll lend you one.

And we'll write that happy ending together.