Late Or

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I keep spilling tea

I don’t mind that I do

It is so Amber

Amber and peaceful running down my arm

Maybe it’s just late

Or that I could be clumsy

Clumsy and so cold

And I want the warmth

But I keep spilling tea

Untitled

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I would likely just watch you a lot 

Approach you from time to time, I may

To touch and make certain you’re real

With words and sentiment fully spent

What more need be said

That leaves, fire, and ink have not already uttered 

Still, Soft Search

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Four corners I’ve found
Flat, hard, sharp, square
I dig in, grasping, despite the glare
Emptying
It would appear
It is for naught 
And not my style
I let go, hoping, because the song 
Singing
The world must be softer than this

New Songs

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Scouring the shops for retro playthings, been-used books and classic, gently-worn threads

I find whimsy

Somehow the hit songs from even this and last year’s summers seem broken, dusty and worn-through at the knees

I’m left thirsty

Used, non-sensical songs creakily playing broken, dusty, worn words, reminding me 

Of the lies I said to myself to survive at about thirteen

I’ve survived…I believe, and I want this: new songs

Helping Her Go (3)

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“…the Sun when she came
Wore the air of her name
The scent of the rain in green eyes
Burned on my brain as I lift to her hope
Should carry her through, with a dime and her soul
Girl, we’ll meet again in the best place out there
In which lifetime, we can’t care….”

Walking to the window, Victor thought to himself: Since when? It bothered him that he’d been given to distraction at that damn window all evening. This time, of course, he saw what he was sure he’d finally see, so it didn’t surprise him. Someone’s holding her hand. “I knew it,” he blurted aloud to himself, covering a small patch of the glass pane with the steam from his words. I knew the universe wouldn’t allow someone like Cressida to walk life’s road alone.

Scanning the details of them, he saw orange energy -a blur of it. He saw loving, longing souls. It made him smile, then laugh, quietly. Cressida repeatedly reached for her companion’s hand as he launched back and forth from her side. Victor loved the expression of contentment that washed over Cressida’s face when the two joined hands again. This someone moved with a brand of fleet-footedness and boundless wonder that felt familiar to Victor. His height belies his age, Victor realized, quite certain of himself. He doesn’t yet have that awkward, growing-into-his-face look that older little kids do. He’s unabashedly silly. He’s missing a front tooth and a half. I’m sure he’s seven.

What did I do, the sad revelation washed over Victor. She’s genuinely lovely. When Cressida reached out to shake my hand hello, I should have kissed hers, he anguished briefly. Now all we have is the ghosts of each other’s fingerprints forever on our own hands. This notion comforted him. Still, Victor reflected, I should have told her I’m leaving, moving away today.

I know she’ll remember me somehow…I hope.  She’s smart – she’ll see me when she looks in the mirror…something. This streaming emotion overtook him and he noticed his hands were shaking. I know she’ll find me, he convinced himself. But I should have kissed her goodbye, Victor thought. He went back to work, lifting up his heart, scribbling down with ink all this noise, and for now, left it at that.