Thursday, May 31, 2012

A Calling

In my heart the sea calls.
In my soul the ocean sings.
In my mind she says my name.
And in my spirit I answer,
"Wait for me, I come."

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Love

    Sighs, cries, tears, years.
Love is true. It breaks
the heart and dries the
tears.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Rich in Mercy

   Though I was steeped in
sin, You saw me and loved me.
   Though I was dressed in
dirty rags, You cleansed me of sin.

Monday, May 28, 2012

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Forever and For Always

Energy passing through his fingertips,
touching her softly and causing
her cheeks to grow hot with passion
and love. He caresses her face and
neck.
Anointed love, their first time together. Promised
never to part from one another. Until
death do they part.
Softly kissing back, loving him more,
adoring him like the stars and moon. She's
ready to give him all her love. Forever
and always is what she promised
him.

Saturday, May 26, 2012

That's Why (That's Why I love You)

   Your smile, your lips, your eyes. One kiss from
you is all I need to stay alive. So come on over
baby, let's toast to us. Please don't ever leave me,
let's toast to us.
   That's why I love you! That's why I need you. That's
why, when you say goodbye, I cry. That's why
I love you.

Friday, May 25, 2012

Moving On

   Why is the world so dark now?
Why is the fading light so small?
How can you go on when the one
you love is gone?
   Why is the moon so sad tonight?
Why is the sun shining no radiant
light? How can my blood continue to
run when the one I love is gone?
   How can the world move on, as if
nothing ever happened? How can a
life become new when one is gone? And
how can my heart keep beating, when
it's broken so long? Its been broken so long.
   How do you just move on? How can people
smile and say life gets better? How do you
survive the pain, the longing for the smile
you'll never see again? How do I move on
when the one I love is gone?

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Daydream

   Sitting on the grass, butterflies flutter by. Clouds float in the sky,
to lazy to play.
   Shapes begin to form in my mind. The river reflects the puffy clouds
and a chess set forms in my brain.
   "You can't move there, that's not fair!" says the white queen to the black.
They continue to bicker, and play, in my perfect daydreams.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

When the Rain Falls

   When the rain falls, in little glass tears,
I remember all the years.
   Sweet kisses and embraces in the dark,
listening to the songs of the night lark.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Time Can Wait

   Softly, gently, chorusing through my vein.
   Waiting, breathing, caressing my skin.
   Time can wait, I'm in love and can't complain.

Monday, May 21, 2012

School Halls

   Rumbling down the hall,
bursting forth from class,
like a pent-up flood.
   Slam! Lockers shut and
open, crying out
for oil, creaking.
   Sounds like a herd of
elephants. Talking and
calling like chatty birds.
   After moments it subsides,
the halls empty. The doors
shut with a loud bang that
echoes through the school halls.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

ADC

   I thought I knew what love
was and then you came. You showed
me what unconditional love feels like.
You showed me a side of myself
that had been hiding, a side that
had lost sense of her beauty.
   I thought I knew how to
love and you showed me how to
receive it. My confession is that
I love you more than you know,
I've searched my whole life
for a man like you, you showed
me friendship and I love you
for it.
   26 tiny letters can't spell
the words bubbling in my soul,
my broken heart that you helped
fix.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Walls

  We put up walls so no one sees the pain we keep inside. We breathe the air and keep working. We build up walls so the tears cannot escape. We trap the pain inside and vow to never let it show.
   Why do we keep running from our fears? Feeling so empty and alone, yet, not willing to let it all show. Worthless, yes, worthless. That's what he keeps telling us. He says it over and over. Alone, the only one still listening. He drags us into the trap like flies. He tells us that he'll take care of it all. Alone, we cry and listen. He's a liar and a snake.
   We put up walls so no one sees the pain we keep inside.

Friday, May 18, 2012

Yet another Dear Letter

Dear _____,

I would like to preface this letter by saying that this is not a request for more contact. I do not need nor desire to hear your excuses or your reasons. I would like to say my peace and then be done with the whole situation. In essence, washing my hands of YOU and all the crap that comes with YOU.

So, let's begin shall we?

First off, I do not understand why you are NOW wanting to come back. Really? It's been what? 8 months? I know that you couldn't have possibly grown up in that amount of time. Nobody changes that quickly. You fucked things up. If you had really cared, you would've tried much harder THEN than you did. You would've acted like an adult and not tried to place the blame for your own actions on others.

Mature? When have you EVER been mature? You talked all the time about how you had to grow up SO fast. I would like to refer you to the last letter I sent you. The one that listed all the things that I had to go through growing up. The one that said unless you had something to compare you were in no way grown up or had to grow up too fast.

Your mother pays for everything. You don't have a job. You have never had a job. You don't pay bills, you don't pay for food or clothes. You don't pay for your internet or phone. You joy-ride with your "friends" all the time. You buy new clothes, cds, purses, etc. Shall I go on?

Secondly, oh did you fuck up. So hard, _____. I can't even begin to explain to you where you went wrong. Shall I try? Well, there is attacking my boyfriend. You should know better. You NEVER attack your "friend's" boyfriend. That is ridiculous and pedantic. You are so childish.

You lied. About everything!! That stuff you said happened at school NEVER DID. You said all of it for the attention. You know what? I actually had that shit happen to me! Do you know how hard it is to get justice for that kind of thing? Really fucking hard. You know what else? You just made it even harder for those girls who have that actually happen.

You lied about _______. You are two-faced. You have always been two-faced. I can't believe it took me so long to see it! After all the two-faced and backstabbing bitches I've dealt with in my life, you would think I would recognize one. But no, you played it cool. You had me fooled.

And worst of all, when I needed you most, you weren't there for me. I have done quite a good job of cutting you out of my heart and my mind. I don't even really think about you anymore, you know that? That was when I knew it was over. When you completely ignored me after my Grandfather died, I knew I could never be friends with a selfish bitch like you ever again. Seriously? You should have known how I was feeling. Your grandfather died not that long ago.

Come back to me in a few decades and maybe I'll have forgiven you.

Sincerely,
Sarai

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Abecedarian

An abecedarian librarian
fucked a septuagenarian
She made quite a fuss
when his cum was but dust
So she married a girl named Marian.

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

A Limerick

There was a young man from Nantucket,
Whose father hailed from a bucket,
He saw that his hair
was no longer there
so he grabbed a gun and said Fuck it.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Step-daughter

I once was so desperate for your love, a father's love, a faithful love.

And now?

You may ask, now what are you desperate for?

I am silent.

I no longer care for the love of someone who never truly loved me to begin with.

Monday, May 14, 2012

M.A.B.

I said I wouldn't write anymore poetry about you.
That I would cut you out of my heart and forget I ever knew you.
I said I was moving on. I haven't.

Its not from a lack of trying. I have tried again and again.
But the thought lingers, Do you think about me?
Do I ever cross your mind?

I keep saying I don't want to do this to myself.
I keep flogging myself with your memory and what I lost.
I am shattered by my own devices, my own thoughts.

I said I would forget you. Forget whatever love I had for you.
I lied. A million times I have lied to myself and to others.
I say I am over you and I am not.

I fucking hate you and what you do to me.
I hate what you have done to me and how I can't forget.
I can't erase the part of me that wonders.

Do you ever long to see my face?

Sunday, May 13, 2012

A Glimpse of Paris: Chapter Five

Chapter Five

She experienced the rest of her stay in Paris as glimpses. She experienced everything differently after Sebastine. She felt colors more than she saw them, she tried to see everything in details instead of large pieces and she lived between the moments. In many ways she became a better artist after that night under the Eiffel Tower. She felt her drawings and paintings with everything inside of her, laying her soul bare on her canvas.

She never saw the young priest again, though she revisited his church numerous times. Another priest seemed to have taken his place over night and the only response to her questions were that he had returned to his father's home in the south of France. He had not left the priesthood, however, he had only gone to minister over his hometown's church.

The day before she was supposed to return to the U.S. she visited the Louvre. She had been many times before now, sketching Michelangelo's David, Rodin's the Thinker and Venus de Milo. Every time she came here she thought of Sebastine, wishing that he had come too. She thought she saw a glimpse of him, but discovered it was just another beautiful Parisian and not the priest.

Leaving France was like death to her. As she had been newborn from the heavens into France so she was taken back to the heavens at her death. She knew it was only the first of many deaths she would experience throughout the years. Any time she left France behind it would be as a knife plunged deep into her heart.

As the airplane rose higher, she caught one last glance of her beloved Eiffel Tower. She was not sad to die this way, metaphorically speaking. She was actually happy to be going back to Indiana. She had missed her family and her friends. She thought about all the friends she had made in France and how she would miss them also.

Wasn't that the way of the world though? You tasted sweet and bitter, sometimes you tasted both together. Sometimes you tasted perfection, as she had, and sometimes you tasted nothing at all, only what had always been. France tasted like a bittersweet spice on her tongue, full of sweet memories with a bitter undertone of reluctance to leave.

She knew, however, that nothing would taste nearly as sweet as Sebastine's mouth.

Saturday, May 12, 2012

A Glimpse of Paris: Chapter Four

Chapter Four

It was dark when they finally reached the Tower. After Sebastine had changed into regular attire, they had decided to go out for lunch and ended up talking until dinner. She loved talking to him, he was so smart and sweet. They talked about religion and why he had joined the priesthood, they talked about his childhood. They talked about anything and everything, ignoring all else.

They stood underneath the Tower, in the same place she had stood when she first arrived. It was all so magical to her, standing facing him under the symbol of France. She didn't even quite know what was happening when he brushed her cheek with his hand. His hands explored her face, pushing her hair away from her face as he caressed it.

"What color are your eyes, Emmy?" He asked, tenderly stroking her eyelids. She couldn't resist a smile as he examined.

"Brown. My mom says they are the color of melted milk chocolate, but I just think of them as plain old brown." She wondered, fleetingly, if it even mattered how she explained her eyes to him. Had he ever seen color? Or had he always been as he was?

"I like the way your mother thinks." He smiled. Timidly, he put both hands on either side of her face and brought it closer to his. Their foreheads touched briefly. Her heart began to race, her palms becoming sweaty. He was so close to her, her body pressed gently to his. He held her face so tenderly, her stomach was full of butterflies. With everything inside her she wished he would kiss her. She lied to herself saying that one kiss would be enough, knowing that one kiss could never be enough for either of them.

Time seemed to stop around them, melting away like a Dali painting into surreal landscapes and dimensions. Or maybe they forgot about time so that it kept going and they were stopped in-between the ever-passing seconds. He kissed her forehead, his lips like satin against her skin. She let a pleasant sigh escape her lips, indulging her senses with the breathtaking feelings taking over her. She looked up at him, searching deep in those lime green orbs for a similar feeling.

Without warning he kissed her, full on the mouth. He tasted sweet, like a simple fruit wine, pleasant to the palate. Slowly, his hand came to the base of her skull, cupping it tenderly. Her arms came around him, pressing him closer to her. A slow fire was building within her, threatening to explode into an all out inferno as his other hand came to rest on the curve of her waist.

They stood there for a long time, drinking in the simplistic alcohol of a first kiss. Truthfully she never wanted it to end, as all things must eventually. He pulled away then, leaving her breathlessly craving more. He pressed his face into her hair, breathing deeply and gently nuzzling her neck. She ran her hands up to his shoulders, holding him to her. It was so perfect, another sigh escaped her lips.

He stopped, his hands coming up to her face again. For an instant she thought he would kiss her again and she lifted her face for it. A sad smile eclipsed the look of lust he had a moment before. He kissed her forehead again and then, taking his walking stick, began to walk away. She stood still only a second before she began to follow him. He was hailing a taxi before she had time to react. He was leaving her, she realized too late, and he was gone.

Friday, May 11, 2012

A Glimpse of Paris: Chapter Three

Chapter Three

She had been in France three weeks before she saw Sebastine again. When she saw him she was sitting in the back row of a small Catholic church listening to a beautiful sermon on love. The man giving the sermon was a young priest with rakish blonde hair and a walking stick. It had caught her off guard to see Sebastine in the garb of a priest, he looked so different from the day they had met and had coffee.

He had not said anything about himself really. Mostly he had asked her questions about herself and what she would like to do while she was in France. They had sipped coffee and shared a crepe, talking about her plans and hopes. He had seemed so unlike a priest at the time, how she wished he was still unlike a priest. She had hoped, in a childish and romantic way, that he would sweep her off her feet, a sweet little fling to complete her experience in the heart of Love. Now those hopes were horribly dashed as she watched him, his soft voice talking of love.

"Why does his sermon have to be about love?" She wondered quietly. It seemed rather unfair that her ideas had been destroyed and he was still talking about it. She wasn't going to leave, not yet, she decided. She wanted to speak with him, a funny little bubble of sadness floating through her at the thought. They had had such a pleasant time that day at the café and on the church steps. She supposed that they could still have a pleasant time together, just not romantically as she had hoped.

She looked around her, studying the faces in rapt attention to his benediction. She was not the only young woman looking at him with adoring eyes, many hearts seemed to have been broken in his quest for piousness. She sighed. This was not at all what she thought would happen and it was beginning to put a bit of a damper on her spirit.

Taking out a pencil and a sketch pad she began to draw him. She drew him as he had been the day she met him, dark glasses and walking stick. Quickly all but her drawing disappeared, she was in a time and place that belonged only to her. She carefully drew his smile, a little smirk that had been on his face as they were sitting drinking their coffee. She shaded and drew, erased and re-drew. She forgot where she was until someone tapped her on the shoulder.

"Mass is over," said the familiar voice. She glanced up, recognizing the face instantly.

"I'm sorry, Father." She replied, carefully closing her sketch book and putting it in her bag. He wasn't wearing his sunglasses now, giving her a good view of his eyes. They were the color of a lime's insides, faintly green and almost too bright to look at. She took a picture with her mind's eye, a picture to savor for all time.

"Is that you Emmy?" How she loved the sound of his voice saying her name! What a shiver of happiness it gave her, then she was drawn back to his collar and sadness returned again.

"Yes, Father. It is Father Sebastine, is it not?" She tried not to sound so bitter, but a little bitterness came through. She felt as though she had sucked on a lemon, hard.

"Yes, it is Father. Though I prefer just Sebastine when I am with you. Won't you sit back down and talk with me?" He sat at the end of the pew, effectively blocking her from leaving as the other side was against the wall. With a heavy sigh she sat down, rearranging her bag so that it was not in-between them.

They were both silent for a moment, Emmy's eyes drawn to the figure of Christ on the cross. She traced every line of his weary face, caressing every mark of the whip and nails. She was recreating him in paint on the canvas that existed within her mind. She was startled out of her painting when Sebastine cleared his throat to speak.

"Are you angry with me, Emmy?" He spoke so softly, a tinge of hurt and regret coloring the words.

"No." She lied. "I am just surprised. You did not mention your initiation into the priesthood." She took a momentary pause. "How long have you been a priest?"

"A year." He went quiet, fiddling with his walking stick. She knew he was uncomfortable but she didn't want to let him off the hook. She felt like a vindictive bitch, silently hating herself even as she continued to let him squirm. She didn't even know why she was so angry, after all he was practically a complete stranger. He had never called her during those three weeks after they first met. He hadn't actually lied to her, so why were her feelings so hurt? There was another long pause before she spoke.

"I am happy for you." She stood up to leave, her legs brushing up against his as she edged around him. He grabbed her arm as she passed, a silent plead to wait. For a moment she toyed with the idea of walking out and never seeing him again, finding another man to have her fling with. Turning to him she waited for him to stand up. He was a full head taller than her, she realized. She wondered how she hadn't noticed before.

"Emmy, could you forgive me for not being completely truthful with you before? Let me take you for coffee again. We can go for a walk by the Eiffel Tower or the river. Wherever you want to go, let me go too. I promise to not keep any secrets this time." He looked so sincere, she thought.

"The Eiffel Tower sounds lovely," she murmured. He smiled, relief etched into every line.

Thursday, May 10, 2012

A Glimpse of Paris: Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Dawn dusted the sky in shades of dusky rose and gold, spreading quickly across a sleepy sky. Amber dappled light brushed across Emmy's disheveled auburn hair. She was sprawled across an air mattress, the bed she had ordered not having arrived yet. All around her were boxes that had been shipped months before, all packed and stacked. Her parents had come a few months before to get everything set up while she finished the last days of her second year at Mills University in California.

She had taken a two year course on Art History and Appreciation at Mills. That was following a year of Modern Art classes at Indiana University. Now she would be doing independent study for a year and then return to the States for another two years at Mills to get her degree. It was imperative, she told herself, that she saw the Louvre Museum, the Notre Dame Cathedral and the Eiffel Tower. She had to visit the art capital of the world before she could finish college for good.

At first her parents had been skeptical of her decision, especially her father, Bernard Martin. Living in France for a year was going to be expensive, especially since she would not be going to a school, but living on her own. In the end it was her enthusiasm and deep desire to go that garnered her parents' support.

Their only requirement for her expedition was that she get a job to help support herself. Her French was nearly perfect after six years of study, so finding a job would be easy. All of her work papers were in order specifically for that reason. Not all of her time here would be fun and games.

Eyelashes fluttered over stubborn chocolate brown eyes. She wanted her day to begin, but the sleepy sensation of jet-lag refused to let her move. Slowly, she opened one eye to glance at the clock next to her. It was nine o'clock in Paris. At home she would've already been up by now, eating breakfast with her parents and preparing for another day. She wasn't home though, so she could sleep as long as she wanted. Only, she didn't really want to sleep, there was so much to see, so many adventures she wanted to have and they all awaited her outside of the apartment.

Mechanically she stretched, a foot bumping into a box and a curled fist hitting another. She stood as if she was several years older than twenty-one, a moan escaping pale pink lips with every crack and pop. The sun was shining brilliantly now, flooding the apartment with warm golden light. She stopped in front of the glass doors leading out to her balcony, disheveled and in awe. A desire to paint what she saw came screaming from the depths of her soul. She could paint and paint until what she saw had been sufficiently created, but today was not for that. Today was the day of moving in fully, unpacking boxes and settling in.

Tomorrow she would paint anything and everything. Tomorrow her bed would come and she would set it across from those double doors and do nothing but paint. But today she was resigned to fixing up her apartment. She glanced around her, smiling at her mother's delicate handwriting describing what was in what box. Today she would begin with the kitchen as her stomach began to growl angrily at her.

The only food in the cabinets was canned goods, ones that wouldn't perish before she was able to eat them. She stuck out her tongue at them, grudgingly grabbing a can of Chef Boyardee. She glanced at the label, Spaghetti and Meatballs. Opening up one "Kitchen" box she discovered a pot and in another she found a spoon and can opener. Breakfast was going to be disappointing, she realized, if she stayed home.

Another glance outside and she forgot all about the boxes and food. From her balcony she could see the glinting of the sun off of the rooftops, beckoning her to them. She opened the doors and the smell of baking below her staggered her. Sweet smells of coffee and crepes floated up to her on a deliciously soft breeze. Without hesitation she changed into her jeans and long sleeved cashmere sweater, hastily pulling on shoes, grabbing her keys and camera. Tomorrow would be today, because she could not wait inside while the world passed her by.

She had breakfast in a tiny café across the street from her apartment. The coffee was lightly dusted with chocolate shavings and tasted strongly of hazelnut. A pastry and two more cups of coffee later she sat on the steps of a church photographing couples snuggled on benches and birds flocking to bread crumbs thrown by elderly women. The sky was so blue today, much bluer than it had been the night before; then again, she had seen it darkened yesterday.

"Bonjour," said a deep voice behind her. She looked behind her, a quick smile gracing this stranger. He was wearing a black turtle-neck and black slacks, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. His blonde hair was at a rakish angle, giving him the appearance of just getting out of bed. A pair of black sunglasses covered his eyes and a walking stick was under his arm. He didn't seem to be looking at her however, it was almost as if he was staring through her.

"Bonjour, monsieur." She replied, standing. "Parlez-vous Englais-pa?" He was still not looking at her, but a smile widened his lips, revealing two straight rows of pearly white teeth.

"Oui. Yes, I speak English. May I ask where in the English speaking world you are from?" His voice had a slight accent, not like the French characters in movies, but a soft lilt that entranced her ears.

"The United States. A state called Indiana, have you heard of it? It is a rather rural state, pretty though. Not nearly as beautiful as your fair country, but still pretty. Je m'appelle Emmy, by the way. What's your name?" Her own voice sounded crass and completely unsophisticated. She hoped that he would not hear it the way she did.

"Sebastine, Sebastian in your English I do believe." He held out a hand to shake. His hand was warm as she grasped it, a happy shiver running down her spine. He smiled again, removing his walking stick from under his arm. Using the stick he tapped on the steps, carefully going down two steps and then sitting down. He patted a place beside him for Emmy. She smiled as she sat down, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her cheek against one denim knee.

"Sebastine is a beautiful name." She remarked, another smile graced his lips. She stared at them for an instant, a momentary longing to caress them with her own lips startling her into silence.

Sebastine tilted his head up, allowing warm sunshine to bathe his face. The glare off his sunglasses caused her to turn her head. She looked down at her camera and thought about taking his picture.

"Welcome to France, mon ami." He stretched his arms out as if to embrace a ball, she leaned back so that he would not accidentally hit her. "How long have you been in the country? How has your visit been so far?" He turned his face to her, again seeming to gaze past her.

"Well, I have only been here since yesterday afternoon, but I can tell you that so far I am in love with everything I see. I should really be at my apartment unpacking, but I couldn't resist the outdoors."

"Ah, and what do you see?" He seemed genuinely interested in her as she looked ahead.

She could see two couples on two different benches, entwined in romantic poses. A flock of pigeons were parading the sidewalk, pecking at scraps of dried bread. The sky was still a silky blue, puffy clouds playing tag across its face. Every tree was dressed in crimson and honeyed gold, gracefully drifting in the playful breeze. There were so many things that she could see, how could she describe them all?

"There are two young couples, kissing one another. They are lost in their own reality. There are birds everywhere, prancing up and down the sidewalk. There is a mime climbing an invisible ladder just down the street, he is standing next to a vendor. The trees are in their best autumn fair and the heavens are bright and happy." She couldn't help but smile as she spoke, she was so happy here. Even beside a stranger.

"So everything is perfect for your second day in Paris. Though I am sure your camera will not do what you see justice." He gingerly searched out her hand with his. She pulled herself to a standing position before she fully clasped his hand in her own, helping him to his feet as well. Again, he extended his walking stick, then he held out his arm as if to escort her.

Carefully they picked their way down the stairs of the church. They decided to go to a café to grab a cup of coffee and possibly a pastry. If she had been anywhere else in the world she would never have gone anywhere with a stranger, but she felt as if this was the beginning of her existence. She had not been truly born twenty-one years ago, she had been birthed the moment she had escaped the womb of the sky into France. And this newborn was willing to have coffee with a stranger. After all, how else were relationships made?

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

A Glimpse of Paris: Chapter One

Chapter One

Emmy Martin stood under the lights of a Parisian night, her heart soaring higher than the sky. Everything she had ever heard about Paris, France, was true. Romance was like a perfume that scented the air, everywhere she went life bloomed, effervescent like champagne. She glanced up at the stars; shimmering diamonds lit by the atmosphere and almost drowned out by the glare of Paris. To her, Paris was a world within the world, a place alive with its own song and at peace with its sins. It was so unlike any other place she had ever been before. She almost twirled in that moment; arms wide open to accept the destiny and experiences that awaited her. She felt giddy, overflowing with life and excitement.

It was her first night in Paris and she had come to the Eiffel Tower, as if pulled by an unseen force. She stood beneath the massive structure, infinitely small by comparison, looking up in awe and silence. So much history and romance swirled about her, she felt drunk with it and eclipsed by it. It was raining this first night in France, a quiet rain. She felt like she should dance in that downpour, embracing an invisible partner for a slow waltz under the Tower while the drops fell glistening to the ground. She would have, would have abandoned her inhibitions and entered this new world uninhibited by the world before, but she couldn't quite do it.

All around her were people trying to escape the rain, running under their umbrellas into stores and quiet awnings. She could see a young couple, lost in a moment, getting drenched by the rain as they tenderly kissed. The sweet scent of a café and the autumn rain reminded her of cold nights curled up before a fireplace. Whispers of French drifted by her ears, she loved the sound of it being spoken. It was magical to her; of course, everything seemed to have magic. She felt a little like Audrey Hepburn, lost in the character of Sabrina in Paris.

Under the eaves of the Tower she made believe that she had always been here. The sky above was only a ribbon of blue, draped gracefully over the present of France and left untied just for her. Everything around her was a lullaby, soft and lilting across the tops of scarlet and gold tinted trees. Autumn in Paris was more beautiful than any other autumn she had experienced. She smiled, knowing she was biased in her feelings. Truthfully, she had never traveled this far from her parent's home in Indiana. Autumns in Indiana were nothing compared to the decadent splendor here.

She wished she could always keep this memory. This was the one she wanted to keep most, standing at the very heart of Paris, embraced by the stars and the earth. She fleetingly wished she had brought her camera, though a camera could never quite capture this beauty. If she had been a poet she would write of the feelings welling up inside her standing there. If she had brought her drawing materials she would have begun to draw in charcoal or paint the whole scene in pale pastels or water-colors. She suspected, however, that nothing she had would ever capture this memory as it should be captured.

Heaving a contented sigh, she gave the Tower one last glance before catching a taxi back to her new apartment. She had come here, not just for the experience of coming to Paris, but to learn about Art. The rain was falling harder and faster now that she was out of it, rivulets of water trickling down the glass windows of the cab. A full moon hung by an invisible thread in the sky, dropping down so that it almost caressed the tip of the Eiffel Tower. It was more like an ivory pendant on a silver necklace, but she imagined it to be a huge white balloon ready to burst if it touched the point of the Tower. It would be a gentle death. The moon would slowly open with a sigh as soft as satin and lazily drift to the ground.

"What a beautiful thought," she whispered to the moon. She paid the driver, laughing like a young child as she ran through the cloudburst. Safe again, under the awning of her building, she gazed up into the sky. It was as full as her heart, so full it seemed about to burst.

She ran up the stairs to her room, fiddling with the key in the lock. She had so much left to unpack and so much she wanted to do. She wouldn't think about all that tonight, it was late and jet-lag was finally beginning to claim her. Tomorrow she would finish unpacking and decorating and then she would explore this world within a world called Paris.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Ana

Sidra stood on the balcony of her townhouse flat, sipping at a spicy margarita and staring into the dark night sky. She was thinking of someone, someone she could never have and would never want her. She sighed as a lonesome wind howled past her, the chill in the air sent shivers down her spine, sending her back into the warm house. Curled up on the couch, wrapped in a soft cashmere blanket, she stared into a painting of an empty fireplace. Beside the fireplace in the painting, there was a young child, one long dead from exposure to the elements. She didn't know why she kept that painting, only that it spoke to her and she could not bear to part with it.

Again her thoughts traversed a landscape entangled with memories of someone with long honey-blonde hair and soft blue eyes, someone named Ana. Those eyes were like a calm blue ocean and she imagined she could fall into them forever. But that beautiful girl belonged to another, to a man. Something she could never compete with. Memories and regrets. She could never quite escape them, never quite elude those thoughts that haunted her. If only's were her constant companions, pushing and shoving for elbow room.

Was she in love with Ana just to be in love, just to fill that part of her? Why did she crave her, think about her constantly, wishing that she could somehow change what could never be changed? It had never been, so why did she miss it so sharply? Every dream, every thought, slicing deeper and deeper, until she bled uncontrollably. Tears were dripping into her margarita, the painting before her blurring. She couldn't stop them, she didn't care anymore. Alcohol did nothing and that wretched painting only made her wonder what it would've been like.

Maybe that was why she kept it. Without Ana there was no fire, she was just a dead child next to a long empty fireplace. She was that child, missing pieces of herself long rotted away from the decay and the cold. She shook herself then, spilling a little of her drink on her blanket. She set the glass down on the oak coffee table, righting herself to a standing position to dry the blanket. She glanced around her townhouse, looking over all the beautiful things she had. She had done well for herself, living up to her expectations and dreams, but they were all hollow victories compared with the losses that had come with them.

She returned to the chair and once again stared into the empty fireplace, avoiding the dead child curled beside it. Avoiding herself, she lifted her glass in a half-hearted salute, then drained it. She winced as it burned its way down her throat, warming as it went. If only getting drunk would help, she would've done it by now. Nothing ever helped; nothing ever stopped the constant laceration of memory.

Sidra yawned, her black eyes barely lifting to glance again at the painting. She started to fall asleep, adrift on a sea of semi-consciousness. In her dreams she saw Ana standing before her, pleading with her to come with her. She felt rooted to the ground, watching as long honey-blonde hair slowly flew out of sight, caught by the wind. She reached toward that perfect face, a placid smile etched into it. Those eyes, how they sparkled, how they danced! Frozen, she was frozen in place, she couldn't reach any further and with every breath Ana faded into a swiftly coming darkness.

A mannequin, a statue in the halls of memory, that was all she was. A scarecrow destined to stand watch forever. And Ana? She was fluid motion, a ballerina always twirling at the edges of her grasp. She was beauty and perfection, always out of Sidra's league, always too far for her to reach. She ran for hours down a hall, chasing Ana's shadows, always running and never quite catching. The walls were papered with paintings of dead children and empty fireplaces, broken hearts covered in ashes. They mocked her as she ran. She couldn't stand it, couldn't stand to lose her again. Hadn't she suffered enough for her sins?

She stopped running, panting. Doubling over she stared a moment at her feet, willing them to move again, she was so close and yet so far away. When she looked up Ana was before her, waiting and looking like a present day Goddess. Timidly, Sidra stretched out a hand to caress her, just to touch her would be enough, she thought. She nearly cried when skin met skin, she felt so smooth like milky satin. She pulled her close, kissing her on the mouth, tasting and reveling in the taste. She stroked her hair and gently caressed her cheek, begging her to stay forever and praying to never wake up again. Then, just as suddenly as she appeared, Ana was gone.

When she awoke she was alone, still curled in her chair. Her Siamese cat was busily cleaning herself underneath the painting, pausing now and then to stare at her quizzically. Her hair was sticking out at odd angles; it always did when she slept in the chair. She swore she could almost taste Ana's mouth on her lips, too bad dreams didn't mean anything in reality. She stretched, falling out of the chair instead of standing. She looked again at the painting, cursing it with every breath.

She took it down, carrying it into her bedroom and shoving it under her bed. Later she would drive out to the country and set a fire, she would purge herself of memories and regret. She would burn up what love she may have felt for the painting and for a young woman with long honey-blonde hair and dreamy blue eyes. She would cut out her heart, she thought. Wouldn't that help? Yes, if she had no heart surely it wouldn't hurt so much. There would be no heart left to hurt.

Monday, May 7, 2012

Green

He remembers her eyes. Greener than the grass in Summer and tinged with a smile, wide and innocent. He can see them so vividly in his mind, as if it was only yesterday that he saw them last. They are so unlike those that belong to the woman next him. She has hard grey eyes, cold and unfeeling eyes. So unlike those that he remembers, so sunny and full of life. Looking at the woman next to him, her eyes lost in sleep, he wonders how he has come to be with her. How has he ended up with Mistress Grey and not that beautiful girl with emeralds for eyes?

He throws his legs over the side of the bed, leaning forward to pluck a stray slipper away from the cat's happy claws. The cat mews in protest, then, quickly growing bored, saunters off to the next adventure. He sits still, pondering his memories, swishing them inside slowly like a full wine. Twisting to look, again, at the woman, he feels a tinge of regret and revulvsion eclipse the passion that he felt only moments ago.

Of course, Mistress Grey is not ugly by any stretch of the word. She has a very soft mouth, small demure dimples, lusciously long eyelashes and dark red hair that pools about her waist as she sits. No, she is not ugly. Not even to him. Even now his body reacts to her prescence in his bed, even now he would willingly take her, but she is so unlike the one he wants right now, that he makes believe she is ugly.

He stands up, stretching and sighing as he makes his way to the bathroom. He stares at the face in the mirror, trying to make sense of what he sees. He is no longer a youth, nor is he ancient, caught in the middle of the two extremes. His brown curly hair is starting to thin now, his body is not quite as lean and supple. His blue eyes sweep over the five o'clock shadow encroaching upon his skin, he rubs a hand over the stubble as if that will make it disappear.

Again he thinks of a girl with green eyes, lost in the taste of her lips and her skin under his eager mouth. How long has it been since he saw her? 10 years? 15? No, it can't be that long, surely not. He peeks out the bathroom door, looking over at Mistress Grey. She has opened her eyes, the sheets pulled down below her breasts as she arches her body in a stretch. He caresses her with his gaze, drinking in her smooth creamy skin and every curve.

A wince for the thoughts that enter his mind, he was imagining her to be that long lost girl. He draws his head back into the bathroom and moves toward the shower. He turns on the water and paces as it warms. Steam curls around his body, a mixture of heat and perfume floats by his face. Stepping into the tub, he wonders if he ever really loved that girl with the green eyes. He convinces himself that he did not, that she was just a pleasant dream he once had. A fairy or a goddess created by his mind in a sleepy Eden.

Mistress Grey interrupts his thoughts as she climbs in behind him. She smells of sex and sweet dreams as she wraps her arms around his waist. He turns to face her, letting the water caress his spine. Those grey eyes are not nearly as cold and unfeeling as he imagined them to be. Not quite as sunny as that long gone girl, but warm and tender as they look up at him. He remembers why he fell in love with her, remembers how that other girl was lost and the one before him won.

He kisses her lips, gentle and sure, no longer distracted by the color green as warm water and gentle grey eyes wash away that girl's memory.

Sunday, May 6, 2012

She Screams A Name

I look upon her, empty and brutal in her deceits. She fools no one but herself. She is cold and unfeeling as I hold her in my arms; she turns away as I lean in to kiss her pale lips. Her eyes close, not in ecstasy of the moment, but in revulsion and anger. She screams another name in her sleep, tears streaming down her dreaming face.

And whilst she screams that name, I hold her shaking form praying to whoever will hear that tonight she will sleep in peace. I brace against the bed frame, holding her naked body to mine, trying to keep her together as she tears herself apart. She won't wake up now, too lost in that realm that only the dead and the dreaming see.

In the morning she will pace the room, wandering like a lost child, dazed like a zombie. A blind eye she will turn to me, even now she does not see me. She never has and never will. Yet I am the one that has remained, desperate to hold her to me and to love her. And when she calls that name, I curse it under my breath, a piece of my heart ripped from my body and fed to her flame.

I cannot leave her, bound to her by chains that I have no key to unlock. Gratefully I would be burnt on the altar of her love, as a sacrifice to her pagan gods, only I have no spark with which to light myself. She remains a ghost in my reality; I am a ghost to her. When we touch, she feels nothing. No caress, no kiss, no body other than her own.

We sit, side by side, yet worlds apart. She in her kingdom of walls and lies, I in my temple of love and waning hope. She lies only to herself, she pretends that she could ever love me, but I know who she is thinking of when we are together in bed. I know who encompasses her thoughts, the ones that I would long to have been on me.

Lost in the times when that name belonged to her lips alone, a time when that name brought peace and love instead of nightmares. For her sake alone, I would have her returned to those days. It is so cold beside her, all of her warmth drained into a bottomless pit of self-loathing and lies.

Saturday, May 5, 2012

Separation

I stand at the outskirts of his mind looking in. I am like a hungry orphan gazing greedily at the cakes and cookies decorating the window of a bakery. I so desperately want in, wishing to break down the walls and smash the barriers with my bare fists if necessary. Impatiently, I continue to stand at the outskirts.

He knows me. Knows me better than I probably know myself, seeing what I can't fathom and understanding what I can't see. He is quiet, silently watching me through the windows that separate us. He wants to open the doors to let me in, but is unsure how to begin. I do not know how to find the key that I seem to need, the one that leads to his heart.

I sit at the cafe, drinking iced coffee and painting my heart in colors that no longer exist in the human world. He sits across from me, sipping his drink and pondering my paintings, my thoughts. He reaches for my hand, a simple enough gesture, one that I will soon forget. For a moment we hold hands and the world seems so perfect.

We toss and turn, swaying like twin palm trees in the face of a hurricane. He reaches for me and I for him, the walls separate us. I curse our fate, clinging to what I want to believe is him, knowing that all I hold is ash. We will meet again, in secret, the walls always separating except when we are in bed. It has always been this way, why should it change?

He caresses me until I burn. I kiss his neck and his chest, I taste his tongue and touch his cheek. We are on fire, we are alive. Walls and kingdoms can fall all around us, we are lost in this dream. A dream that began as a painting of my heart, art that began with a thought as I stood along the outskirts of his mind begging to be let in.

Friday, May 4, 2012

Rememberance

She remembered sunshine streaming through the trees, the wind whipping past her as she leaned out the window of his speeding Corvette. She remembered long walks on the beach, her hand clasped in his as their barefeet tread through wet sand and salty ocean. She remembered lying on their backs on a blanket of grass watching shooting stars collide with the atmosphere. They had promised to never let go that night, promised to never forget this crazy thing called love.

She remembered the day they were married, floating down the aisle in a white satin dress and holding a bouquet of soft pink roses. She remembered crying as he slid a simple gold band onto her finger and called her wife. She remembered smiling as they were introduced to the crowd, One before God and Man. She remembered flying away in a horse-drawn carriage, waving back to people now long gone. They promised to love, to cherish, to honor. Promised to never forget.

She remembered fighting, angry words filtering through pursed lips. She remembered words that could never be taken back, feelings that had been hurt. She remembered apologies and long hugs, making up and forgetting what had been said or done. She remembered the taste of tears, both happy and sad, holding his hand after they had both been so mad. She could almost taste the regret they both felt. They promised to never fight again, how many times did they break that?

She remembered their first born child. Coming home from the hospital and realizing they had so much left to learn. She remembered long nights filled with fussy babies and empty stomachs and sleepy brains. She remembered family picnics in the summer, flying kites and dancing to "Ring-Around-A-Rosie". Ashes, ashes, they all fell down in a heap of giggles and flailing limbs. They promised to always keep these memories close, even when times were hard.

She remembered so many things, so many happy moments and sad. Moments long gone, people long dead. As she stares at the coffin that holds her husband, she remembers the last thing he said. She stands and goes over to him, caresses his cheek one last time, she leans over to kiss him. She looks at him, a fleeting wish that he would wake up goes through her mind. Softly she whispers, "I promise to never let go, never forget this crazy thing called love".

Thursday, May 3, 2012

Empty World

The world was empty.

The world was empty, cracked like egg shells without their yolks. The bodies were the only flora, bloody flowers dotting a blackened landscape. White hands, thinning to skeletal limbs, rose up from the ground, stretching toward an unforgiving sky. Roads were paved with blood, everything completely destroyed in the wake of catastrophe.

The world was empty, raped of all her natural beauty and humanity. The sun burned above, a hot red cinder poked into the eye of God as he looked down. A blossom of rot and evisceration bubbled up from the earth, soaking the atmosphere in crimson and black. Oceans overflowed with the destruction man had caused.

The world was empty, broken beyond all repair. The moon passing above turned, forcing it's white gaze somewhere else. Stars burned themselves out, overwhelmed with the end of time. And the end had come, come so thoroughly and quickly. Everything dessicated in its wake. Forgotten by the universe as an ever spinning sepulchre.

The world was empty.

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Weak

I hear your voice in my dreams, hear it whisper at the edges of my sanity,
ever whispering, always calling. Why can't I let it go? Let you go?
Am I in love with you to be in love? Am I just missing what never was?
I have tried to be your friend, tried to understand why we never were.

I can't keep going on like this love, wishing I was you and wishing to be me.
I don't understand this bond that was never given a true chance,
I don't understand why I chase you when you turn, blond hair fluttering.
Am I wrong to feel the way I do, when I see you with him and her with you?

The voices scream inside my head, your tears caress my face.
Why can't I forgive myself for sins I never committed?
When will I stop chaining myself within a prison of my own regrets?
This is futile, this is wrong. But I stare at your pictures and I wander, lost.

Hold out your hand, one word and I will fly to you, all others forgotten.
Acknowledge me, please! Forgive me what ever sins, love me again.
Nothing makes sense, my mind is breaking, please stop the whispering.
Nothing is worth having, I want to understand.

Ah that I had loved you more when I had the chance. In love or out of it?
Hold out your hand.

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

1961

Present

Looking back, glancing over his life.

The past and the regrets.

Quiet and calm, he holds the gun to his temple and pulls the trigger, he holds her picture to his heart as the blood stains the pillow, his head falls backs.

Clutched to him, she is frozen in time and memory.

She is not his wife.

Past

A string of pearls encircle an ivory throat. She stands in front of the hallway mirror, gazing off into space and time, dreaming of nights long since forgotten in the abyss of memory and life. She tries to tear her eyes away from the pearls against her skin, tries to forget the reason they will never be her own. She looks into the dark blue eyes of a stranger, her doppelganger and twin, but a complete stranger. Her hand, coming up from her hips, falls back from those white drops of sand and lies placidly against the fabric of her skirt.

A voice calls somewhere in the distance, she turns from the mirror and another hand comes up to remove the pearls that now threaten to strangle her. She tears them away from her skin, the string breaking and pearls bursting from their captor’s hands to scatter on the mahogany floor. She doesn’t even stop to pick them up and, instead, runs away from the voice and out of the house. She tries to erase the image of pearls hitting the wooden floor, tries to un-hear the sound of them tinkling and the voice calling.

She loved him.

Past

He stands next to the reverend performing the ceremony, flanked by four gentlemen in black tuxedos. He watches his bride, on the arm of her father, float down the aisle. She is beautiful. Long, silky, blonde hair flowing down her back, tiny violets entwined in twin braids tied behind her head. She smiles at him, a timid smile, a rosy blush deepens across her face. Light blue eyes flick from the floor to him, barely meeting his gaze. As she turns to receive a kiss from her father, those eyes never leave his, blazing and bright.

He takes her hand, facing her as his performance begins. This will be his most brilliant of pieces. He feels her tremble, watches her lips move as she repeats the words given. He stares at her lips, not comprehending, refusing to understand what she says. He parrots the same words, a smile plastered to his face. He hears his voice and doesn’t know who is speaking. Cold metal is produced, he slides it along her finger. Such a sexual act, he thinks. He thinks of another girl as they kiss and turns to greet his audience as they are pronounced man and wife.

He doesn’t love her.

Present

She reads of his death in the newspaper. She knows, without looking, he is survived by a wife and three sons.

She reads how he was clutching her picture.

She drops the newspaper, her hands shaking and her heart reeling.

She looks over at the softly snoring figure beside her. She smiles warmly, recovering from shock a little at a time. She snuggles closer to the man beside her, withering and wrinkled hands entwining. She knows she made the right choice.

She sheds a tear for the man who lost her.