A Passing Glance

I'm really only writing to end the quiet. I have something to say to all of you, but not the desire to say it.

So strange!

It's been a marvelous roll of weeks tumbling on. Though not with you.

I'm distant, silent, quiet, bored. Standoffish, rude and impatient.

It's possible you'll never be me or him or us and I hear my heart thinking less and less about you.. . .. ... I feel guilty and sad... ... ... . . . and I try and stare and think of a way to change....... . . but I know it won't ever.

It will always be this or less.

No matter who I am, you will be who you are.

I've never been good for many and often only for one.

(I have been chastised so many times for this!)

At the risk of loneliness or reward of solitude, this is the way I've lived my life.

Whatever it is you like in me, it always amazes me that it's enough.

Cut my heart out (with a spoon).

You've a good eye for patterns.

Thank you for looking them over again.

Here you go!

I'll tell you how. It's very easy to do.

Okay!

When am I to come over?

Thanks!

Do you have an eye dropper?

We should be lucky to all disappear so softly.

Your idea was both acute and shrewd.

You're a such a hard worker.

The lemons look fabulous!

You did a great job scanning it.

You don't have to be anything more special than the special you are.

Valkyrie

I'm going to put duct tape (decorated with a heart sticker) over my heart and stand in a field of shoulder-high grass.

Ready;

Aim;

Fire!

But that would be silly.

(And how my empty chest shudders as I laugh!)

I never had a heart at all.

You, on the other hand, you are life and beating and blood.

One by one my saw-tooth-edged arrows fly.

Miss you, I will not.

Clearing (Lost in a)

Rain does rouse the writer's spirit.

Writing is like having a desk covered in mounds and voluminous folds of tulle.  You've got to sink your hands in the middle, elbow-deep, and part your way to a clear space.

And like glitter after an ornament or dried petals after pruning, the tulle does still mar the space you've tried to clean.

Brushes against your forearms as you move.

Falls into your lap.

Surrounds you.

But what would I write if I could get to the very cleanest clearest spot, untouched by anything the world could offer?

Only this:

I've gone somewhere unspeakably unreachable and I don't know if I'll be coming back.

From the Shore

I very often wonder, in convincing yourself of who you are to be have you forgotten who you were?  

Do you know who you are?

I know who you are.

A fish-too-small at the end of my line.

I'll use you as bait for bigger fish or lose you to a passing turtle's snap.

But I'll never set you free.

Decay

I thought I'd won the world today.
But in the last moments of try,
Seconds before triumph,
I failed.

Nightcap

"Maybe god isn't all-merciful.
               Maybe god isn't all-knowing."

"Maybe God's tired."

"Maybe,
                god doesn't exist."

It was the way you said it casually, looking backwards and quietly over your shoulder as you walked away from me.  

(walking away from me!)

A confidence.  A command.  A reward.

How did you know I'd follow?

(Why did I follow?)

I like the way your mind works.

Will you work for me?