Good little Catholic girl.
Say your prayers,
Love your neighbours.

But not that one.

Ignore the luscious fruit.
The slithering whispers in your ear.
The juice, inches from your lips.

The temptation.

Eyes that entrance you.
Little touches.
Hidden blushes.

Keep it secret.

No one can know
That he isn't a
Good little Catholic boy.

- p. winter

She was a rest in a bar full of staccatos.
She was the note played pianissimo and the key that didn’t sing.
She had no forte in her soul, her steps were slurring phrases.
This girl was the music of a broken string.
Hers were the fingers stiff and cold; and the lip plate never kissed.
A metronome of self-doubt always ticking in her ears.
Never allowed a change in tempo, never shown to spread her wings.
Singing lessons from the deaf for 15 years.

The other was a pickup note, anxious to play the tune.
The dancer skipping steps up ledger lines.
The crescendo of passion, the diminuendo of a lullaby,
This girl no blaring trumpet could outshine.
But though her eyes were made of stardust her heart pulsed slowly, portato.
No accompanist, no duet, no conductor to keep the beat.
Her cheeks stung from the disguise, her worry slowed her, legato.
Compensating for loneliness with quick tempo deceit.

But, like broken triads, fate had it the two would somehow fit.
Drawn together as tied notes, destined to play their piece.
One so controlled by the orchestra, the other yearning for a duet.
The enchanting harmony within them had always burned to be released.
They played as one instrument, arpeggios overlapping in a heavenly key.
Swinging in synchronization, the melody swam magically through the night.
No longer controlled by metronomes, no longer stuck singing solo,
Forever, together, their own sheet music they would write.

- p. winter

They sewed my lips together
And told me I sang beautifully.
But when I tore out the stitches
They said my voice
Was background noise.

- p. winter

morning
    karma
       luck
        day
         job
         try
       wife
      heart
  evening
      effort
      work
      night
  ­       bye

none
of
which
are
good
any
more

- p. winter

The monsters he grew up fearing.
The creatures from the closet.

The ghosts behind the walls.
The skeletons under the bed.
He was always afraid of the dark.
But as he grew
He taught himself
To let the darkness surround him.
Seeping into his veins.
The creatures no longer crouching in the corners
But flooding his thoughts.
Riding his mind into the sunset
As it sank on the horizon.
He learned to lose control.
To feel the monsters in his lungs.
To hear the ghosts whisper in his ears.
To let his eyes roll back.
He discovered the beauty in the shadows.
Befriended the silence.
He found peace in the isolation.
He didn’t fear the dark.
He became it.

- p. winter