Confetti of Two Lives

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.  

With That Being Said….

I know of ago
And you were wed
I envy  she knew
The dreams 
In your head
And slept by your side
In a big wooden bed
With that being said…..

I know of ago
And you were strong
I envy she knew
When it all went wrong
She packed all her things
And took off her rings
And you slept all alone 
In a big wooden bed
With that being said….

I know of ago
And you came to me
Caught in a storm
Drowned in the Sea
And I slept all alone
In a big wooden bed
With that being said….

FLATLINED -Letters Unsent #6

As much as my destiny commands me to write, there are moments at which, my pen struggles and is at war with the  words I weave on pretty empty pages. I fill the pages with words, I empty my soul and stain the pages, and yet, I am here, alone, unfulfilled with my words. My words have emptied us. We are null and void and subtracted by words. All we have been is now undone by a few strokes upon a page. Cigarettes, sushi, black tea with honey, wine, porn star sex, all erased by words negating the existence of us. Once, words were lovely built bridges, eye to eye, sharing pulses and heartbeats, and now, they extinguish the beat.. we have flatlined.. words have killed us, love.  

Letters Unsent #3 – “non-us”

It was like a contest, but more like an epic battle of two mortally wounded warriors.  Who could appear to live most comfortably in the ice capped weeks and months of silence..who would win the title of most unaffected when two worlds collided in one afternoon, by wayside of a dirty swollen river? Who had the best poker heart, who died most brilliantly and walked amongst the living? 
It was you, love, who unloved the love we wove, like a delicate vine, that crept like poison, fraying the hems of nothingness sewn inside. You mastered the nonverbal, you untouched and spewed out the delicacies of the word unheard and bolted the shutters.
The symphony was halted, unfinished. The conductor frozen with arms in the air.
Clumsily, I cling to all I have and will ever have of this “non-us”…just me and my pen..closet oldest friend. You’ve won, I retreat to paper connecting trails to some paint by number dream that has washed away in the absence of your mirage.


I threw away the flowers today I had received as a token of broken vows from someone I once knew. To be correct, someone I once believed I knew. I didn’t know this person anymore than I now know myself. The flowers had been in an orange and green vase for several weeks. I would watch petals turn brown and crisp and fall onto the table. I would watch the flowers wilt. I would worry when they were gone, he would be gone, also.  I held onto dying rotting flowers in the hopes that he would hold on to me as we began to decay.  As the years shed and the core of our existence wobbled through the universe, unsure if it had the capability to survive the knowledge exposed cruelly and carelessly.  He bloomed as a deceiver. He was pathological in thought and deed. He was far from good in his intentions. The soil in which he grew was poisonous.
It was time to make the decision in the brave daylight, with a strong sun. I took the flowers and dumped them over the railing of an old wooden staircase. I watched them be airborne, their stillness, succumbing willingly to gravity pulling them to their final resting place, near a fence, hidden between an old white and blue aluminum house. They would decompose there……as we would.
The weeks pass and he returns. We walk on top of brick side walks planted centuries earlier, before the birth, death, and pain of ever knowing him, had transpired in the stillness of the stars. I see snow croci, purple, pushed up with faces being kissed by the bees. He is standing next to me. I am thinking I cannot believe after this man murdered me this winter, I am alive, next to him, near Spring, casting our eyes in unison upon flowers, and how love shares the same fate as flowers. They are planted and sprouted. They are cared for by the universe  and good intentions. They thrust through the Earth, open their core and pray for kindness. They are mistreated, at times, and they all wither in the sun, die in the frost, endure the betrayal of the same ground in which they bloom.
Spring is a slow beginner this year, and so am I. I have been living in the shadows of a sun too truthful to face, but the flowers are more brave. They face the sun, they burst, bloom and thrive because of the sun. I bloom brown. Despite the return of the warmth to the ground, I do not thrive. “Failure to thrive.”- I remember studying this phenomena as a psychology student, many years ago. Children raised in orphanages, who did not have the appropriate physical affection, grew at a slower pace, and had emotional retardations.
I poked my head up through the earth, bloomed brown, and did not thrive. I am like the decayed flowers I threw over the banister of the stairs, many months ago. On occasion, I would search through the weeds to find the flowers I had abandoned to the fate of dying alone, in the cold, below stairs, and onto an unsympathetic pavement. They lay there rotting, curling up, some petals still attached as if to show their undying loyalty to the  flower, even unto death, while other petals  disengaged and blew away, in the late winter winds, in hopes of being reborn to a new flower….as we did.


I still stare at your picture. There you are, so pristine and pressed between the glass and brass, looking into the distance, slight smile, curved lips. I remember the first time we kissed. I remember when it was me in the distance. I’m in the past now, I am the past. Why do you remain in my present? 
That photo of you, I’ve studied it. The deep dimple in your chin – I pressed my thumb there once, saying, “done”, thinking it was God who put that there, finishing you, and dropping you into the clouds. 
Your eyes, are brown, the color of Earth, they matched your hair and your brows. I look into the mirror, and I am “mismatched”, I wish I was matched, like you.
 That picture of you, it speaks from it’s frame, you called me “Yankee Deedle”.  Did you like apple pie? I’m indifferent.
 When I talk to your picture, thinking you may answer, I ask you, if my memory ever browses across your brow.
  I’m the past, alone with and without you, in the present.



An unkind reflection
Yet truth be unkind
Mapping the woes
Where deep doubts 
Once dined
The mirror              
Does not hear
Steeped in tea 
Sipped all alone
There are three
A knowing 
A fate sealed 
A worn path 
From a rose 
To a thorn