beneath the fabric of a single human heart
resides an elaborate orchestra,
a seemingly imbalanced sequence of forces,
intervals of time and measures of amplitude,
not at all working against one another,
but synchronizing themselves so intimately,
they are nearly indistinguishable as separate –
just like you and me,
pulsing to one beat

-image via Pixabay


Death By Roses

death by roses, she thought, 
death by roses

but she couldn’t write about that right now –
her skin was too thin not to write about stars,  
because heartache was a burden that was too heavy to bear

so, she sat there, writing about stars, 
forgetting about how he once brought her red roses and watched her bloom

she wrote about stars and kittens and the rising of the sun on cold December mornings, 
so that warmth might settle in her bones,
if only for a moment 

she sat there, pen in hand, 
pretending everything was fine,
writing about stars she couldn’t see,
warmth she could no longer feel

her skin was too thin not to write about stars,  
because heartache was a burden that was too heavy to bear,
and when she stopped writing about stars and kittens and the rising of the sun on cold December mornings,
the bruises felt all too fresh and the scars were still itchy and tender 

when she stopped writing about stars and kittens and the rising of the sun on cold December mornings,
her pen couldn’t stop writing about how he cracked her rib cage with fistfuls of longing, 
about how he watched as her entire being bent toward the light of his promises of forever,
about how she gave him pieces of herself she’d never shown another human being,
only to be pricked by his indifferent thorns,
about how he haphazardly plucked her from the life-altering soil and let her wither to dust 

she knew for certain that to love is to burden oneself with cracks in one’s rib cage,
with bruises and scars,
with the inevitable dangers of thorns

her skin was too thin not to write about stars –
but if he were to show up on her doorstep with open arms and a fistful of red roses…..

death by roses, she thought, 
death by roses

image via Pixabay; written in response to Mindlovemisery’s First Line Friday prompt


My mother. 
These choices, this behavior. 
Why?, I ask myself.

But, it’s been there all along 
in some form or another, 
I just didn’t want to see.

She doesn’t see, or chooses not to;
maybe she never will.

There’ll be no comforting –
it is what it is.

Now, again, 
the child becomes the parent. 

I am breaking the cycle, I say.
I promise myself. 

Mother may I?
Yes, I answer. 

Mother I am,
mother I will remain. 

-image via Pixabay


I don’t visit often enough.
I tell myself it’s the distance,
work, time’s pull, insistent;
my schedule is rough.

But there’s unrest in my heart
that tells me that’s not true.
Instead of feeling closer to you,
seeing you only rips me apart.

Every time I see your face,
a little piece of me dies;
I feel the sadness you try to disguise,
the years of running a losing race.

I see too much
I see how you might look on my face.

-image via Pixabay

Loose Ends

I can’t seem to keep the dog from stealing my seat,
the screen door from flying open in the wind,
the breeze from sneaking in through the crack in the window seal,
or stop the overpriced tv from shutting off in the middle of my program

I can’t seem to stop the kitchen faucet’s brain-numbing dripping,
the buffering, buffering of my too-slow connections,
the fucking updates from making everything slower,
or stop the dishwashing detergent from making everything taste like soap

I can’t seem to wash away the smell of woods and pine hanging on my every thread,
the linger of bourbon-soaked conversations between sweat-soaked sheets,
the feeling of your fingertips gliding across my skin,
or stop the electricity from crackling between us in trails of gooseflesh

I have so many loose ends, it seems,
too many to list

but, Baby, you aren’t one of them

-image via Pixabay

On This Bed

on this bed,
nights last forever;
they begin before a suitcase is unpacked,
before dinner is served,
before the moon bids its farewell,
before noon

on this bed,
I dream things,
I dream sideways-looking things I can’t discuss with anyone but him

on this bed,
dream-like love making happens,
the kind that overtakes us so that we don’t bother to lock the door or make certain the window shades are pulled,
the kind of love making that makes me cry out loud,
makes me beg, then dissolve into him,
that urges me to do things I’ve never done before

on this bed,
I know it’s always been me;
that’s what he tells me,
and that’s what I believe;
it’s the way it has always been,
from the day we met, young and limitless,
to this day, nearly 24 years later,
when life tethers us to the ground

on this bed,
we don’t listen to the birds calling out from the treetops;
we let the hours pass by –
it’s all a dream, and it’s all ours;
it always will be

give in to it,
that’s what he whispers into the crook of my neck,
and I do what he tells me,
I do it all night long

for, on this bed,
night lasts forever

-image via Tumblr

Worth the Wait

“I forgive you,” he said, so easily,
as if it took no thought at all –

my heart wasn’t prepared for that,
how could it possibly be that simple?

it became glaringly evident that love is a stream of mindfulness,
of choice after choice,
of forgiveness,
tiny currents of trust, which compound, gaining strength,
a path of morsels, each one made of bits honor, of memories, one after the other,
that leads you back to the person who is waiting,
who wants to wait,
who believes there was something worth waiting for

I followed the path,
I forgive you, too

we were worth the wait