I remember when I was small
No more than a few inches above my mother's hip
I saw the world through kaleidoscope eyes
Because when people hurt themselves
I didn't think it was on
Purpose
And when people mysteriously died
Suicide didn't come to my thoughts
Because who would do that
End their life so quick
Like snuffing out a small flame amongst the larger ones
And the repercussions could be huge
Because what if that little puff of breath
Traveled further than you wanted it to
And blew out a dozen more than necessary
What would you do then
But when I was small
No more than a few feet tall
I couldn't even begin to guess where I would be today
And I still can't

I
She was distinctively radiant amongst the other schoolyard Angels. The smile- yes the smile, the one which glimmered against my soul silently, dancing every time our eyes connected. She- angelically pure, innocent, gentle as a fawn, awoke me to the possibilities of young love. The cobblestone romance (St.Patrick’s Catholic school, child grooming for the middle class) grew uncontrobaly, over shadowed by parental influence, Shakespearean at times. Yet amidst the confusion there was always that sweet sound of R&B; penetrating the mind of two souls on a dusty road. And yes the road was dusty, blinding, worn, but there was lost beauty in the road they shared, A stolen fragment in time. (“Little boy Lost, oh little boy lost – oh William Blake  not now) a young man lost in un-warranted kick’s, let her hand slip…slowly….yet surely.
II
The haunting of time! time which they once shared. It’s funny to think of her now with lost eyes; broken pieces of time scattered on the ground; eternal images of her reflection slowly howling. When he ponders the frozen moment it produces smiles, smiles which can never be taken away. There were days when her scent was close to his nose, light winds of nostalgic breeze tickling the notion of remembrance, her electric current blazing through his soul in hopeless bliss. The two souls eventually found their own roads (distant) but the flame in her eyes never forgotten.
III
The Sunlight slowly began to fade on a brilliant day, hints of the sunlight’s glory painting its last masterpiece against the open sky and he writing it all down out the windowsill of his eyes. Nervous anticipation of broken time exists in his soul; it was like meeting someone for the first time, again. The slow wind gathered against his scarf making him shiver with anxiety while the familiar eyes locked, internally smiling. When she spoke it was as nothing had changed, the shyness dissipating into coffee house air, nervous giggle’s that they both shared. These two Shakespearean characters filling each other with overdue laughs. “Is it better to have loved and lost then to have never loved at all?” – who am I to ask I just write the stories.

Create the beginning
Mend the broken
Forget the beckoning

Write the canvas
Alter the conscious
Make the cut

Get the degree
Go the distance
Gain the discipline

Achieve the experience
Embrace the essentials
Finish the ending