In mornings, with fog sleeping on a world about to wake, my thoughts and my being, dissipate to another. His jaw, chiseled by old world lyrics, born by a Sea, far from me. I am apple pie America, green-eyed, rusted bridge snout ; his eyes, descended from gypsies traveled by mysteries. How plain apple pie fares next to Black Sea delicacies. Powders and blankets can not cover this discrepancy, making it more delicious to me.
We’ve gone round and round. The sun had returned and so did he, but it was not the fickle sun of March, teasing daffodils in the damp, no, it was the sun of July; brilliant in blisters, and brown skin. It promised more sun to come.
We woke the skies, as the red fired ball succumbed to the moon, which hung on every word we whispered, while the sun slept.
I saw my Mother, today. Some may say that often, for me, the sight is scarce. I sat on the steps, she straddled in pain, the walk over to me. She looked, like her grandmother, a woman who died when I was a child. Grey and swollen, as if time had rusted, from the inside out.
I felt like a child, today. Perhaps seeing my future fate. We chatted, about her garden, my father broke his glasses, he was cutting hay today. It’s quite an occurrence, to be bewildered, by one’s own DNA. The one who writhed in my birth, often writhed by my existence. Her body now shrunken, her gait so unsteady. I sat on the steps, she straddled in pain, the walk, away from me; and I felt like a child.
You became my everything…is that not what nourishes the depleted soul in our unenviable state of humanity? I was starving for you. Once injected into my psyche, and the addict was born; each dose brought me close…to being spun on a spool…endless tangles, where words duel; such hope each strand holds of conjoining, being so much more than a solo strand..
Your eyes, the reflections of a brilliant Earth, those lovely mirrors, caves for tears, you claimed damage to the dam, damn me it was my fault, the shutters leaked, a time or two with my doings, with my words – I cherish as friends, I betrayed them into congregating as an army, in lines across a page, we marched into your mind, army of unkind.
My words, I used them for ego and pride, they helped to bring birth to that which has died.
When the writer removes her sword from sheath, to sickle all beneath, unto paper, made confetti of two lives. If words were sutures, I would sew the scar closed, my love. I would seal it with a kiss. I would weave us together, and never fray, under the guise of my words, forever this day.
If I could create you as an object, it would be fashioned of marble. Cold and stoic. Heavy and immovable. Your eyes would be carved of stone and staring into the distance; no matter which angle I stood, they would not meet mine. I would caress your crevices and feel the cold emanating from your smooth skin, in a desperate attempt to warm your core. I would fail in this epic tale. I would wind my fingers round yours and you would refuse to mold with mine. I would break a piece of you off, to show my dismay, and tell you, telepathically, I am taking you with me; in your silent protest, you would be my hostage, made of stone.
I would tuck you in my pocket for the day, and take the piece of you out, and feel the jagged ends, on which you broke off, and feel the sadness of knowing, you are with me, only through thievery.
I would put you in my purse, and in the coming weeks and months, feel you at the bottom, among loose coins and chewing gum, scratching my fingers, reminding me, you are with me still, in the stillness of a stolen stone, and you could feel my sadness, of being your hostage.
Our story deleted..we live like ghosts between blue lines. I’ve revisited, looking for a word, left behind, by you.
Our love is a blank page now, devoid of prose and verse.
Oh the emptiness of sheets now, too bright to bear with swollen eyes. Vacuous.
How can this nothingness echo the entirety of us?
So this may be it..where karma’s wheel dispenses destiny..a fork in the road..destinations unknown, yet familiar. A stop at the plateau of where you and I go. May we “bare” this burden, our skin never fusing again, for just the thought brings panic and drink? I smoke, in exhaustion, thoughts and road maps. Exiting this scene one hundred times or more, soles without motion.
Who is she
How dare this breeze, come call on me, for I am alone now, with my grief. Has it come to visit me, unannounced? I should have prepared tea for thee, and combed my hair, but you have come to tousle my curls, fashionably wind-blown, by your presence. Do you not see, I am quite pensive here, pining for a friend, a lost love and years of my youth, before you came to touch the aging, etched around my eyes?
Your presence comforts me, for the stillness is so debilitating, as if the hand has stuck again, on a clock, at a juncture at which I never wished to witness.
Must I be reminded of the ticking moment, when all had expired, must this expiration continue counting minutes, asking me,” how much can your soul bear of this void, until it breaks you?”
I’m weak. I broke at the first tick. Does this nakedness amuse you? My invisible friend, breeze of my grief, stay with me as I unwind, I want no other visitors. If am still alive, as the heart beat of clocks, then I want to feel every bone shatter, every muscle writhing in the knowledge that what was, is no more.
My friend is clothed in Earth. She sleeps without the pain, she has bequeathed to me. My only happiness to inherit this albatross, if she is smiling now in the winds.
If I wasn’t me, I wouldn’t have thoughts of you. The thought is all I’ve got. I stare into the sky, and with its faceless eyes, stars dotted, strung like lights to nowhere, everywhere, you see me there.
This great cycle of birth and death, of seasons circling around, like clocks ticking their beating heart, is merely time without you now. Neither the stars, nor clocks, or time seem to mind, we are apart. We walk and talk and write and work as if neither has knowledge the other ever existed.
Somedays, the sky is all I have.