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She wore a windbreaker as red
as her parents voting habits,
and smoked American Spirits
as rough as the next-door
skateboarder's hands.

At 18, she was bored by
teen-aged touch,
and looked towards the
thirty-five year-old avant-garde
painter, who meandered in his
sun room, like a soul
pretending to be lost.

At 20, her parents told her
to go to college, to go to
'some place other than here'.
So, she went and had skinny,
Greek fingers with chipped nail-polish,
dip down and inside of her, without
judgement, without thought, and,
with this touch, she felt free.

At 24, she was an undergrad with
an apartment and a guy named 'Blake',
and Blake said Brown and she said State.
And when Blake left, she felt complete
despite losing something meaningful.

And when her story started to go on forever,
her body spread across the pavement like
seeded jam on burnt toast, scraped thin,
without image and without future, lost
inside crevices and cracks, a memory
or thought, wandering nothingness.
I was immediately drawn to her.

She looked like you--if you hadn't come from a good family that is.  Inked from head to toe, and not the ink of someone whose identity is wrapped up in how others see them, but in a desperate attempt to express themselves to the world.

The same hips, the same nape, the same thighs, the same eyes..


The eyes were different.

There were no pretensions or Self-Righteous *******.  There was no desire to use everyone around her until they were used up

She simply existed, and it was beautiful.

We were better lovers, better partners, and better friends than you ever allowed us to be.

She never yelled at me for expressing my opinion, or talking about why I might be upset.  She listened, and considered, and talked.

In the end, it didn't last


She looked like you.


I allowed you to break me

Glancing down at the hole in his chest
he realizes he knew it was hurricane season
he just thought he was impervious to her winds

I see you.
Lying there just a few
feet from me, the
malaphor of us, derisive, mocking,
screaming at me from
the air above our heads,
the same air that lies heavy


with all of the things we've
said to each other in this room

but you
don't see this

I glance at the curve of your hip
I question my resolve
I check and recheck my mental
list of how far I'm willing to
compromise and if it would be worth it

but you
don't feel this

I kissed your forehead, you took my hand;

you wouldn't let go.  I sat there and
gently caressed your arm, wanting only
to hold you, but you have poisoned
yourself tonight and it would be wrong.

You fell asleep, and still held on to my hand.

I sat with you a moment longer, smiling and silently weeping at the same time.

You wouldn't let me leave yet again,
even in your sleep.

In the light we can be seen.

The darkness is safe, so I still hold your hand.

This is a love song;

This is a requiem.
Insomnia and anxiety are leading me on this particular journey.  Feel free to give all the criticism you'd like.  I am out of practice, hell I'm not even sure why I am doing this.
The history of us is scarred into the topography of our sleepy little town

You know the one that has delusions of grandeur.

Hidden places where we learned the ins and outs of each other in a way that only new lovers can.

I've been traveling this sleepy little town again and the thing I've come to realize is this:

I used to come to these places to feel close to you.

The concrete abutment on the edge of a man made lake

The ruined foundation of an old restaurant

The stone table where we sat in the dark and I reminded you that some things didn't need to be photographed

You laughed at this but I came back and took a picture anyway.

Now they're just places,
waiting on

another idealistic young couple

whose whispers echo

. . .always and forever. . .

When forever is really just the next distraction away.
he hides his sadness
with photographs and

another rickety lie

to himself about sepia memories
of sad days he thinks were
better ones

the evidence of last nights tears
stains on the sheets he
wears wrapped around

his bruised, choking heart
beats relentlessly as he scrawls

another loving hash mark
into a never ending

Read the three part discussion on Sadness here:
i had a broken toy box full of broken toys

flotsam and jetsam of a childhood
filled with playthings shattered and forgotten

in later years I would open that dusty
chest filled with dusty remnants of happier times and weep
for the friends I had left behind

shattered chunks of preformed plastic that
kept me safe when
barely out of diapers my Nuclear Family went


lead paint and lawn darts
loose pieces and lost innocence

i learned the value of love through
spending time with cast off friends

i learned the value of respect through
seeing the pieces of the stickers that I
tore off my spider-man helicopter immediately


my mother and father in their last
act of love as a couple spent hours
placing them exactly as


i did not learn that one day i would
be a dusty old cast off toy in someone elses
box of broken pieces

in that world
toys are replaced before their


broken not by love and use but by throwing
them against the wall in a tantrum looking for
the next



A discourse on our childhood playthings and how they affect our adult relationships.
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