Roses of a deep peach, the only kind I really like. I treat myself sweetly. I do things just like I said I never would again. No second thoughts, no regrets. A chance not taken is a cowardous heart.
Monday, August 09, 2004
I
And the world felt strangely still.
The silence of the movement
About her was surreal.
She looked about
In wide-eyed wondered.
II
I want to probe
You with my tongue,
Taking a cool lick
Of gray brain matter
Salty like your skin in the sun,
Your shoulder warm.
Your intellect thrills me
As much as your taste
And the thought of you inside me.
III
Warm caress of breasts pressed tight
To a warm mouth and the back of your neck
Soft where my fingertips hold you.
Stop me now because I refuse to stop myself.
IV
Too late, the fall is here.
V
Artist: The Mavericks
Album: What a Crying Shame
Song: O What a Thrill
And the world felt strangely still.
The silence of the movement
About her was surreal.
She looked about
In wide-eyed wondered.
II
I want to probe
You with my tongue,
Taking a cool lick
Of gray brain matter
Salty like your skin in the sun,
Your shoulder warm.
Your intellect thrills me
As much as your taste
And the thought of you inside me.
III
Warm caress of breasts pressed tight
To a warm mouth and the back of your neck
Soft where my fingertips hold you.
Stop me now because I refuse to stop myself.
IV
Too late, the fall is here.
V
Artist: The Mavericks
Album: What a Crying Shame
Song: O What a Thrill
Sunday, August 08, 2004
I
Friday I panicked, took a step back, poked at the frog in her glass dome. She stood staring, wide-eyed, wanting the fly. I wanted to tell her no, no fly for you, honey, but held off. When I left she was excited with the not knowing.
II
Yes, some of this is fiction and some too much thought, and some wonder of the infinite possibilities the future can hold. It is just the bits worth articulating unless you want to hear about my mundane days. I often write the things left unsaid to loved ones gone. And sometimes the ambiguous you slips in and I address no one. But if you ask, I will tell you, more often than not my thoughts are of you.
Friday I panicked, took a step back, poked at the frog in her glass dome. She stood staring, wide-eyed, wanting the fly. I wanted to tell her no, no fly for you, honey, but held off. When I left she was excited with the not knowing.
II
Yes, some of this is fiction and some too much thought, and some wonder of the infinite possibilities the future can hold. It is just the bits worth articulating unless you want to hear about my mundane days. I often write the things left unsaid to loved ones gone. And sometimes the ambiguous you slips in and I address no one. But if you ask, I will tell you, more often than not my thoughts are of you.
The "kids" are asleep, one on the couch, one in her room, and the puppies out in the yard. I move quietly through the day getting things settled, getting things put away, wishing you would call. Much of my life lay in boxes stacked by my window, but the front room is now ready to be let. I think to call my Dad again about the a/c, about my plumbing. There's rock out in the car needing to be taken up to the porch but it's so much to carry and so dirty. I want to fall asleep in the shade, let cool breezes lull me. I want to put my hand on your cheek, hold you inside me. Instead I stop to write, stop to draw, move forward through the day getting things done.
I
With precision and care she undoes the clasp, slowly drawing the chain about her neck until it is secure. Long fingers trace the gold, brushing the flesh around her collarbone comfortingly. Fingertips touch the tiny cross, tugging gently. “What are you doing to me?” she whispers.
“Time,” her daddy said. “Faith,” she thinks to herself, setting aside the past where doubt and worry were her enemies. And the water, cool and sweet, tripping up into sky blue dreams is almost palpable.
II
She falls, lightly laughing, her resolve waning
In a lyrical language of articulation
And all those words she’s found in the past span
Of time become the clarity of forbearance.
III
Today would have been my seventeenth wedding anniversary.
Tomorrow is a new day, bright and clear.
IV
“Fascination, attraction, passion may be born “at first sight”. Love is not. Loves requires knowledge and knowledge requires time.” - the Psychology of Romantic Love
She was nervous, afraid there would be no attraction despite their conversations. She knew she liked him too well already. Barely enough time to take in his full measure, she stepped forward wetting her lips at the same time he moved in for a kiss. And the Texas sun was warm as her face flushed deep. She moved forward through the day without intent.
With precision and care she undoes the clasp, slowly drawing the chain about her neck until it is secure. Long fingers trace the gold, brushing the flesh around her collarbone comfortingly. Fingertips touch the tiny cross, tugging gently. “What are you doing to me?” she whispers.
“Time,” her daddy said. “Faith,” she thinks to herself, setting aside the past where doubt and worry were her enemies. And the water, cool and sweet, tripping up into sky blue dreams is almost palpable.
II
She falls, lightly laughing, her resolve waning
In a lyrical language of articulation
And all those words she’s found in the past span
Of time become the clarity of forbearance.
III
Today would have been my seventeenth wedding anniversary.
Tomorrow is a new day, bright and clear.
IV
“Fascination, attraction, passion may be born “at first sight”. Love is not. Loves requires knowledge and knowledge requires time.” - the Psychology of Romantic Love
She was nervous, afraid there would be no attraction despite their conversations. She knew she liked him too well already. Barely enough time to take in his full measure, she stepped forward wetting her lips at the same time he moved in for a kiss. And the Texas sun was warm as her face flushed deep. She moved forward through the day without intent.