Ponies, Pirates, Poems

I'm in a place of ponies and pirate lore.

All of me quiet and still; untethered.

Unloosened.

Soft.

Rarely am I bared so without first being forced.

There aren't any blue-eyed boys to choke me, no blue-eyed girls to choke.

Only seashells on a mossy path and a high-walled outside shower.

Clink of a spoon against a soup bowl.

Who who whoing of an owl.

There's a restorative importance in being alone.

Rolling, lazing, wet-haired and washed-clean-pink in my island bed I'm untouchable.

And oddly, I've no desire to be touchable again.

Shadows and Breadcrumbs

One night I'll find the words to describe you.  All the world will weep then.

They'll read our story and melt in sighs of woe.

We are the storybooks.  You are the ending.  These are the breadcrumbs.  

Who knows what we know?  I know only one who does.

Who has what we have?  Not anyone.

I'm a shadow playing at your feet.  When your sun sets and you've finished dancing won't you take your shadow with you?

Every day I give you more of myself.

Please take me with you when you go.

I am very close to the end of us. I thought you were too, but suddenly you're strange and trying again.

It's as though I watch from a window as you toil in the garden. Under the sun. With broken tools.

Why?

It's not ever going to work. It didn't really from the start.

And if I reach very slowly for the shutters I can shut them unnoticed.

Bolt them.

Turn my back and sigh a tired sigh.

I never asked you to start a garden; I have plenty of green beans.

I don't want to hear you cry (anymore).