Proximity

Promises under duress bring
silent reproach in the morning;
why say it at all if you will
brittle break it and swallow
the shards after tears cease?
Proximity makes lies it seems.
Her eyes like moon mirrors and
mystery breed fear and you would
say anything to stop the flow
of words she spews that make you
think about things you were
never ready to know in the first place.
Once you said you liked to think;
but you like to pretend to think.
Those who think can never remain
immutable in substance. They must
transmogrify into more than what
they were before the final revelation.
So I sit, 4 days later, less like Artemis
and more like the old crone whose silver
scissors will ensure a shorter life.

Finishing Touches

As if the rapture occured
and no object has been moved
I examine what you left
at your sudden departure;
no clue as to how you
actually felt about the half
finished letter or
the mostly eaten sandwich
left on the table.
The words scribed stop
just short of some cliff
and I wonder if the note
would have finished in
I love you had there been
only a moment more.
I sit in your chair to
soak up the last of your
earthly warmth in preparation
for the dead winter cold
and dark that will ensue.
Will it be enough for eternity?

White Noise

Your body wrapped around mine
fingers criss-crossed and knitted
for good luck or maybe protection
or perhaps stitching for the wounds
you will give me at a later date
leaves me eyes wide open.