Thursday, November 15, 2012

Not what has made me, but I am what has unmade me. The drifting apart of sleepless nights, the soul stretching of heartache, the pull of the infinite, the silence. The words that seeped in and diluted my blood and shadowed the lines between my skin and everything else.

The longing for you that reduced me to a ghost.

Thursday, November 8, 2012


If trouble comes when you least expect it then maybe the thing to do is to always expect it.”
Cormac McCarthy

I suppose that I always expected trouble, but I never expected you. You with your honest eyes and soft shoulders and innocent hands always running through your hair. You with your innocent hands. Trouble's hands aren't innocent and trouble doesn't use adjectives the way you do and trouble doesn't close its eyes.

It wasn't new. Trouble was always there, the way bruises are, lurking,waiting, under the surface of the skin. Taking but one hit, one impact, to spread blue-black and visible and sore to the touch.

You would think I would forget. You would think, after all this time, this shaping and reshaping of the heart, you would have been lost. You would have slipped into the blood stream and drown or tiptoed through my tunnel bones and stumbled out my finger tips. You would have clawed up my throat and exhaled, like breath.

You would think, when the snow fell, you would step outside. Catch a snowflake on your upturned hand. Grab your coat and boots and venture out, venture away. But it seems, when the storm came,you closed the door and shuttered the blinds and retreated further into the dark cave of my heart.

I suppose I always expected trouble,but I never expected that trouble was you.