Beat

He slipped in the bathtub
She versed in The Tiny Giant on Rivington
And I,
My bags tucked close
But not close enough,
Could not help but think
How Beautiful it sounded
When she described his torn ligaments and how
The Oxycotin
Was not
In fact
Covered
By his medical insurance
My granola tasted delicious
Blueberries overripe cantaloup strawberries yogurt oven-roasted almonds and my favourite –
Cashews.
I would spend the day pretending I was happy

The start of something

She sat perched on the ruined stone wall, overlooking the expanse of dew covered grass, speckled with graves still dark with the wetness of last night’s rain.  Eyes closed, she imagined the light breeze to be souls softly brushing past her pale skin as they made their way back home.  It was early in the morning, but there would be no sun today, as the grey remnants of the storm still hung in the sky.

Decisions

With decisions we make
As a product of time
When we face what we choose
We’d prefer to be blind

But if time were eternal
Would decisions be made
Or would we be fixed in a permanent state

State of fear, state of love, state of pride or of hate
Regardless of what, with no power to change

But my friend, here we are
As each hourglass runs out
With our fate in our hands,
And our words in our mouths.

Underwater Reverie

A speckle of whiteness above.  Tiny bubbles – my last hope – drifting upwards, out of reach.  I was, however, in a state of total serenity.  The water seemed to embrace every inch of my being, from the inside out.  Every nook, every cranny, taking me for everything I am, everything I was, and everything I ever hoped to be.  And only at the exact moment I opened my lips to suck in this new air around me was I torn from my reverie, by the hand meant to save me.

The Cleaning Lady

An entry from my book “642 Things to Write About” that my dad gave me last year.  My brain’s answer to the prompt, “The Cleaning Lady”.  Could make for an interesting short story if I decided to continue with it.

— The Cleaning Lady —

Her name was Dolores, but she preferred to go by Dot.  She was a quiet lady – kept mostly to herself.  Every morning she would return to her modest apartment on the 26th floor, drawing the blinds before the sun peeked over the neighbouring building.  It was a tough job, getting the blood out of her crisp, white blouse, but if anyone could do it, it was Dot.  That, perhaps, was why the local papers had dubbed her “The Cleaning Lady” when referring to the notorious and impeccable serial killer terrorizing the streets of Manhattan.

Supernova

We found each other in this galaxy
Just the dust of greater beings
Bound together by forces unknown
In a fiery collision of what we call love

We became a giant of our kind
Feared and envied
Bursting with passion
Passionate rapture, passionate rage.

Fierce tendrils erupting from our core
Blazing, burning, one hundred million degrees
Red hot to the touch of desperate lust;
Hotter still to the turned shoulder of a midnight dispute.

It seemed at first as though our world
Would die without our light
An illusion
Of grandeur.

Because even the brightest of stars
Can’t live forever
Hence the thousands
That fill the blackness above us each night.

But what we were was beautiful
Even in the darkest of times
And another star is only born
When another dies.

Only time will tell how many light years it will be
Until we are seen shining bright from the earth
A beautiful cluster of colour,
Colours of death, of birth.

Because we, my love, my friend, my first
We are a supernova.

A wonderful thing to lose

She smelled like the sea and everything infinite.  Him, like cigarettes and hay.  Sheets hung from his window, just a temporary fix until the next pay check.  Every taste of his salty skin brought her a little closer to reality.  Sweat and dirt to keep her in touch with hard truth; something she always seemed to lose.  When she felt a little too far away, she would always ask to hear something she could believe, so that one day she might learn what was real.  Whether it was because she really wanted to, or because they did, no one could say.  Like a diver afraid of the bends, he was afraid to go too deep. Her moonlit surface was all he needed and wanted.  Sometimes she would forget herself and talk of nothing and everything and he would tell her she was crazy – but she would only turn around and say “darling, sometimes the mind is a wonderful thing to lose.” But eventually, inevitably, she began to sink.  Her glow became dim, her steps out of sync, her heart just a little off beat,  He was an anchor.  He was a cage.  Keeping her grounded but holding her back from everything she was really supposed to be.  She told him she’d miss him as they passed the milk truck on the 401.  He told her he loved and he swore it would last.  And that was the day she understood what was real and what would never be.