dear quinn,

it's hard
to feel
everything.
especially when
everything
hurts.

but feeling
nothing....

that's like pouring
out your coffee
because it's too hot.

blow on it, and wait.

love,
quinn

You are like a mountain, not a
sublime snow-capped mountain in
Colorado, or like the Cerro Torre in
Argentina and Chili.
Not like
the Ama Dablam in Nepal.
But you seem like a
mountain nonetheless.
A mountain that obscures
the beauty of the
majestic sunrise,
and the grandeur of life.
A mountain that
smothers love and
everything glorious.
Maybe you aren't
a mountain at all.
Perhaps you're an
ant hill, dragging
dead souls into
your busy hole.
I climbed you, and
was so enamored with
your beauty, I missed
your charade and
masquerade.

A heartbeat- loud enough to drown out the sounds.
Gypsy rings- the ones that turn your finger green.
A fire- crackling past the perfectly pitched logs.
A silver chain- tangled and twisted like a drunken memory.
Chipped nail polish- fragmented in the shapes of places you have never been.
The lifeline on your left hand- too short for you to get anywhere that you want to go.
A faded tattoo- the one that you regret like your eleventh drink last night.
The red string around your wrist- the one that looks like trickles of blood when it is wet.
The laminated bookmark- the one you ever so eloquently placed in my heart and walked away.

We are turning pages only because we're watched,
In a blurry sight of our lives,
We are offering an occasional vision.