Over sticks, and stones...
no broken bones ...
only thick bands ringing
neck, and throat.

I floated onward, anyway:
my fainted,
fading body, splayed;
swathed, and rolled,
in a jacket shroud,

as gently, as...a paper wave.
Yet, onward, pulled,
on grasses, loud,

As softly, as
...a blackened cloud.

(ACT ONE: DRAFT)

STAGE DIRECTIONS
Basement.
Dim bulb swaying.

Center stage:
A battered leather wooden chest,
straps and buckles cinched
like a ship at storm.

Upstairs: (Built out upper stage)
A woman, white hair in soft pins,
her chair angled toward a radio
hissing static and old jazz.

She eats quietly.
Spoon tracing circles in her bowl.

CHARACTER NOTES

THE WOMAN – seventy-eight
hands like river stones,
her face a map of soft summers
and lonely winters.

THE CHEST –

Unseen:
heavy with letters, photographs,
perfumed silk,
a man’s pressed shirts,
and the ache of two bodies
that once loved
without mercy.

Seen:
Its sides swell -
the subtle shape of a man’s hands
behind it's leather,
pressing out,
clasping the straps.
Fingers circle
the locked buckles.

THE PAST LOVER – Voice only.
He exists as vibration
inside surrounding wood,
breathing
in response to the Woman.

SCENE PROGRESSION

Lights fade up.
The chest breathes.

Pause.

Buckles flex.
A groan,
like an old stair.

She glances down
through the floorboards.
She does not rise.

(radio goes silent)

Eyes closed,
she whispers:
HUSH NOW.
I REMEMBER YOU.
I REMEMBER.

And then
nothing.

Her silence
is part of the score.

ACTION CUE

The chest swells.
Wood stretching.

A strap snaps.

A letter flutters
up the stairs,
as if seeking oxygen
and lands
at her feet.

She rises.
Fetches rope, duct tape,
an old belt.

Descends the stairs.

Ties the memory down again.

Her hands shake,
but she is precise,
as if dressing a wound.

She ascends.
Sits back in her chair.
Spoon in hand.
Mid‑air.

Radio on:
a soft trumpet solo,
weary with promise.

The chest downstairs
begins to thump
and inhale.

A low whisper
seeps through the floorboards:
her name.

Her hands tremble.
She does not answer.

The chest exhales once,
long, hollow,
full throated,

and the house answers.

FADE TO BLACK

Only the sound
of her spoon
falling
to the floor.

I think about the sea fondly
It's beauty can only be compared
to it's vastness

Whether sun or moon
The light reflected from both
leaves me mesmerized

The further I go into the sea
The more I find out
of it depth

And the more I see its vastness
The more I realize that
I know so little about it

I want to know more about it
I want to explore it's inner sanctum
I want to see both the light and dark that reside within it

I think of the sea fondly
I know that the time I have with it is short
But every moment I have with it
feels as if time has stood still.

Am I too young to miss the past
Am I too old to enjoy the rain
Too young to notice the change
Too old to be immature

Or maybe too young to think when to blink
in fear I’ll miss the bliss if I stop to think

Or maybe age isn’t real
Just there to control when we do what
When we should be embarrassed to cry,
or when to start to live our lives,
and with a blink of an eye
you’re caught barely alive,
wore out from existence of time

Came as a stranger, going like mine,
There wasn't a day that your voice didn't shine,
Life's playin' hard as it does all time,
Your help was unforgettable, truly sublime.
It's all like years but it started only yesterday,
So soon farewell came and you went away,
Even you've gone your bond is always in my way,
As I walked, I learned there's nothing like all day,
Soon or later everyone should face a d-day.
May be our journey was only until the day,
On my way thinking, I weeped at a slow pace.

“Don’t bring the past into the present and don’t project the present into the future.”

― Brittany Burgunder

_________________­_

Then …

is lost in a cloud of vague and shadowy memories,
and comes in waves of melancholy nostalgia
for that distant time;
how can it have been so long ago?

Now …

is enduring the present,
each day blending into the next.
The clocks tick so slowly
yet day passes into night
into day into night
in a never ending cycle.

When …

is that far horizon
shrouded in fog,
beckoning me towards it relentlessly.
How far it is I cannot know;
it could be tomorrow or many years hence.

But I know
that all too soon,
now will become then,
the fog will clear,
and I will realise I have reached the end.

And the clocks will stop ticking.