If I found an idiomatic quarter, I’d pick it up, I wouldn’t flinch.

With such newfound wealth, twelve people could hear my opinion on a subject.

And I’d still have something left over to pinch.

I could choose to offer this remaining cent in exchange for your thoughts though.

Another alternative would be to just save it, consider it earned.

Or maybe I’ll travel to that copper coin’s namesake Lane to find a barber showing photographs of every head he’s had the pleasure to know.

There’s the possibility I expand my options by getting change at one of the nearby figure of speech banks.

That would give me freedom to haggle with any vendor, convincing him to lower the price of his wares.

Then politely complete my victorious, discounted purchase with a heartfelt “Thanks.”

Even with that transaction completed, I’d still be able to turn on the leftover silver piece without brakes.

Although, I should take a self-serving approach by deflecting responsibility.

And use it to buy a dozen excuses to justify my mistakes.

I’ll probably just hold on to my imaginary quarter in hopes I happen upon one more.

Because there’s always the possibility to double my monetary find.

Then I would have the same name as that rapper the Gen Z kids use to adore.

Seems impossible

to persuade you to see me

when I don’t, either,

and you exude confidence

and style that I sorely lack

But then your book dropped,

and while some fawned over you

I was there to retrieve it,

return the volume, and feel

the warmth of your gaze on mine

There's sun on the outside

A brightness I can’t seem to find

And I hate rainbows, though seemingly kind

Why I am forced to be happy

Right after it rained

It’s a beautiful lie

The yearning thought of your apology

It's a hopeless void

Knowing you don't miss me

As if my name has no meaning

Do you remember the words

That came from your tongue

An inching spider

To mother a web of lies

There's sun on the outside

A brightness i hope to find

I want to love rainbows, so seemingly kind

But every day is exhausting

Rain or shine

I blink.

I blink, and I am there, with you, at the beginning. Our first date, I think. Maybe the second. You look young. Healthy. It’s 20 years earlier. We are kids, poor in life but rich in hope.

You're wearing the blue dress I loved, and your hair is up. Your nails are red. You stopped painting your nails at some point. I'm not sure when, but I think I know why.

I feel overwhelmed to be in this moment again, not sure why or how. I just stare at you, eyes wide, jaw slack.

I smile, and you smile. Feeling awkward, you kiss me. "What?" you say, seeing the puzzled look on my face.

"I'm just happy," I say. "I can't believe I’m here."

You smile and kiss me again. This time you mean it. My hand touches your cheek, and you lean into it. You're real. This is real.

And I blink.

I blink, and I'm some time else. We're fighting. I'm in the middle of yelling something. Your face is red. Your nails are blue.

It's three years later. A month before the wedding. It was a stressful time. We fought a lot. You threatened to call it off twice. You gave me my ring back a week before the ceremony. Cold feet. That night I went to your apartment, and we fought and then laughed and made up and drank a bottle of wine and decided to elope.

We were married at the court house the next day. Your parents were mad, but we told them we would still go through with the bigger ceremony. It was paid for already, so why not?

But that's not now. That's weeks away. Now I am in your apartment, and you are yelling at me. You call me selfish. You say I'm an asshole. But this me, the me I am now, is not angry. You are here. I don't want to fight.

"You're right," I say. "I am an asshole. I'm sorry."

You look at me oddly, waiting for the "but ..." Waiting for me to regroup and come back harder. I never apologize, and it throws you. You're like a prize fighter whose opponent just went down without a punch. It's a win but a confusing victory.

You glare at me and turn around, without a word. You're still mad, but I'm not. I reach out and squeeze your shoulder. You're warm and alive and real. I don’t want to let go. “Please,” I say. "I need to ..."

And I blink.

I blink, and it's later. Our honeymoon. We're in the ocean, the waves lapping at our legs.

You're in your white bikini, your hair sun-streaked, your skin tan. The moonlight is bouncing on your eyes. Your hand holds mine, and you stare at me with that look you give when I slip away, far away. That look that says to come back home.

"Sorry," I say.

"As long as you're back now," you say, pulling me into your arms.

We kiss, and I taste the salt on your lips. I smell the ocean on your skin. Your body is soft and warm, and I pull you tight, feeling you breathe against me.

I know how this night ends. We make love on a towel on the beach and fall asleep with sand in our hair. This was my favorite night. On my desk at work is a photo of you in this bikini, taken on this beach, on this night.

When it gets bad, when you struggle, and I work late nights to pay the mounting bills, feeling guilty that I have to choose between money or you, I will look at that photo and come back to this moment.

But now I'm here. And I kiss you and squeeze my eyes tight and fight back the tide of emotions. I don't want to leave.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s Christmas. I have Lucy in my hands, and you squeal when you see the puppy. You smile and hug me and tell me you love me.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s New Year’s. We are in Times Square. My company sent me here to help open the new branch, and we lived in a nice apartment for six months, enjoying the big city life. Your hand is in a mitten, and you grip me tight as we stare up at the dropping ball.

“I love you,” I say, but you cannot hear me, because the crowd is so loud. 5. 4. 3. I squeeze your hand tighter. "You're going to miss it," you say.

“Please don’t let me go,” I say to you, to me, to anyone.

And I blink.

I blink, and you are in your bakery. You opened it the week before. I have a dozen roses in my hand, and you are beaming.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s dark. We’re in bed. You are on top of me, and I am inside of you. You ride me, your nails in my chest. You lean down, your hair brushing my face. You moan, and your mouth opens.

I grab your arms and roll over, on top of you now. I stroke your hair and look into your eyes. “What’s wrong?” you say. “Why did you stop? I was close.”

“I know,” I say. “I just don’t want it to end.”

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re on the couch. You have a cold, your head on my chest. I hand you a box of tissues.

"What's happening?" I say.

And I blink.

I blink, and I am at the bar with my friend Bob who is talking about his wife and how annoying she is and how he wishes he could find someone like you.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re eating dinner.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re laughing. You take a sip of wine and tell me to stop.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s snowing outside, and we’re making soup.

And I blink.

And it's dark. I hear you sleeping beside me, on your side, facing the wall. I stare up at the ceiling with the small crack in it as a car alarm goes off in the distance.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. Your hand clenches mine tightly. I had forgotten how strong you were.

You're hoping for a girl. I'm hoping for a boy. The doctor is explaining the risks associated with your pregnancy.

He starts to give us odds and you squeeze harder. I don't want to see what comes next.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re driving, and our song comes on the radio, and you sigh and dab a tissue to your cheek and look out the window. Your nails are green.

We lost the baby a year ago. I remember thinking I wasn't sure if we would make it, and when we did, I was relieved. But that happiness did not last long.

“I want this to stop,” I say. “I know what’s coming up, and I don’t want to live it again.”

You look at me, puzzled. Not really angry, just sad.

And I blink.

I blink, and it's three years ago. You are sick. Frail, already. I skipped past the tests and the treatment and the remission and the hope that slowly turned to the worst fucking part of it all.

We're at our home. We're at the dining room table we bought at the thrift store, the one with the bum leg that I tried to fix but just made worse.

"It will be OK," you say, catching my eyes. "This will work." But it won't.

I smile, emotions overwhelming me. I'm helpless. Useless. We're broke. You closed your bakery the year before. We've already lost all of our savings. My insurance will not cover what is coming, and we will not be able to afford it.

I know how this will end. I know the path we're on, and I can't be strong. Not now. Not this moment.

I was never a great husband. I was a good husband. I tried to be great. But it was beyond my reach. I worked too much. I did not say I love you enough. I was selfish. I took you for granted. I missed too many moments thinking there would be more.

I look in your eyes, and I think of how much you will need me and how little I will be able to do to stop your pain, and I cry. I weep. I wail. I cannot stop. I've never cried like this in front of you before.

"Don't," you say, weakly, your hand cold on my back. "Please ..."

You were always stronger than me. I bury my head in my hands as you wrap your arms around me. I sob, my breath coming in shallow bursts. You pull me tight, and I sink into your arms. I close my eyes tight. Please ...

And I blink.

I blink, and you are in bed, sleeping. I dab a cool cloth on your head. Your eyes open, gingerly. They are glassy because of the drugs, but you manage a smile. “Hi,” you say.

I don't want to see this again.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I wish …”

And I blink.

I blink, and it's two weeks ago. You're gone. I'm alone, sitting in a tiny, cold apartment.

You fought hard. No surprise. You always did. The doctors gave you two months, but you turned it into a year. Every day was difficult, but I hope they were all worth it.

I am at the table. The table with the bad leg. There's a glass of warm whiskey in front of me, brushing against my finger tips, and an uneaten can of tuna.

Lucy is gone, too. She has been for several years. We did not get another dog because it was all too much.

I'm holding a photo of you, framed. Our wedding photo. I'm in a dark place. My head throbs. My eyes are blurry. Not from tears. I haven't been crying.

A stack of condolence cards are to my left. A stack of bills are to my right. Ahead of me is a lonely life full of pain and longing. I have not lived it yet, but it's just as clear to me as the past.

I think about what I have to look forward to and what I lost, and I feel the emptiness of despair. A void is slowly closing over me that numbs my soul and senses. I would cry, if I could, but I am too lost for tears.

"I hate this," I say.

And I blink.

I blink, and I'm in a diner. I'm drinking a cup of coffee.

I recognize this place. It was the 24-hour grease pit near campus, the one I went to almost every night, to study, because my roommate liked to have loud sex with his girlfriend.

My biology text book is open. A half-eaten donut sits on a small saucer beside me. I am a senior in college.

This was where I met you for the first time. This is the night. Five minutes from now you will come in the door with a few friends. You will sit down behind me as I read this book and eat this donut. You will say hi and ask me for some sugar and notice my biology book and ask which class I am taking. I will tell you, and you will ask me if it is hard, because you are looking to take it next semester, and I will say it is, and you will introduce yourself, and pretty soon you have left your friends and are sitting with me, and we're talking about horror films and global warming.

I ask you out. You accept. We date. We fall in love. We marry. We get a dog. You get sick. You leave me. It takes 20 years, but it feels like a blink of the eye.

I know what lies ahead. I know how much I love you but how much pain comes with it. It all starts in less than a minute.

And I blink.

And I'm still here. Waiting for the door to open. My foot twitches as I close my book, ready to get up and leave.

I can walk out the door. I've been given a chance to do it all over again. Take another path. Try another life.

I want to. I need to. I don't think I can do this again.

And I blink.

And the door opens. And you walk in.

You're 22. Your nails are painted yellow. Your hair is in a ponytail.

The woman I loved. The woman I love. You glance at me and smile. I smile back. My heart jumps into my throat, strangling me. My breathing comes in short, shallow bursts. You sit down behind me.

I can smell your perfume. You're inches away.

I know the future. I know what lies ahead. I could leave right now.

You say hi, and that's all it takes. I do not move. I cannot move.

My eyes are wide open. And I do not blink.

There is

Not much

Woman

In me

After being

Mother

All day.

Do not misunderstand,

I love it,

Being mother.

Only

There are moments

I miss her,

The woman.

Who lived

And thought

Freely.

Whose life

Was not tethered

To another's

Heartbeat.

Once upon a time.

There was a time i once knew.

Now I don't know Jack.

I think that was his real name.

He lived his days in a box.

Cardboard,and judged.

Handle with care.Feeble soul.

Once it held a bed.

Thermal packing.His quilt box.

So conveniently swindled.

I find a quarter

damn that's cool!

Why this quarter glued

To the bottom of a pool?!

I jump in

no cap!

Oh shit

My Tiny hat!

You aren't mine. You never were.

Still I wish I had a claim on you.

But I have no reason to,

we're simply fighting for first place

we're simply just trying to be above the other.

Yet, if you asked with a please I would let you win

If you batter your lashes I would crumble.

If you're green eyes looked deep into my brown ones for a second longer

I would cave without thought.

Sometimes I wonder how you don't know how much I want you

How much effort it takes to not say anything

How hard it is to pretend not to be jealous of your new girlfriend.

The one that has it down for you, so I won't say anything.

How you don't see the yearning in my eyes when I meet your eyes

So, I'll watch you from a distance.

Watch your perfect blonde hair glint in the sunlight, to far away to see your eyes

Watch your little habits that somehow dug their way into my bones, heart, and soul.

Watch you laugh and joke, but to far away to hear exactly what they said.

Watch you from afar.

Because, though you are my crush, I can't say anything

I claim it's because your ego doesn't need another boost, but it's really because I'm scared

I will not say anything. I will simply watch from the sidelines,

I will not say anything. I will just continue to pretend to hate you.

I will not say anything. I will roll my eyes at anything you say instead.

Wanting to be yours, while you are three feet away.

Wanting to be yours, even as I say everything that contradicts that

Wanting to be yours, though you could never be mine.

Wanting to be yours, because at one point you were just the guy on the bus

Wanting to be yours, while you pretend to be rude, but you'll talk to me for hours.

Remembering, when we would just gossip about anything because we were just kids on a bus

Remembering, the time I first realized I had a crush on you

Remembering, when I decided that I would never tell you

Remembering, a time when maybe I would have, but not anymore

Remembering, how I could make you laugh, and smile a true smile and not a smirk.

Just because I will be yours so easily though, doesn't mean you'll be mine.

Just because I feel this way, doesn't mean you do to.

Just because I want this, doesn't mean you ever will

Just because I have spent everyday memorizing the sheen of your hair, doesn't mean you have

Just because I wish for you with every star, every 11 11, every dandelion, doesn't mean you do to.

I asked the CEO of a very successful, growing company if she would trade her life with anyone else. Without hesitation, she talked about the poor coffee farmer she observed while on a mission trip to Guatemala last week. “I would love to experience the joy that man expressed when talking about his life.” He was surrounded by his six kids and wife who needed daily care for her medical situation which is worsening. He invited me to come for a glass of water to his house, which was mainly built of sticks and cardboard and could not withstand the gentlest storm.

So what did he say that would make a billionaire want to trade places with him? Something about the love that consumes him from morning ’til night and the belief that eternal bliss is waiting for all of them.

What would you trade your soul for?

Or do you believe the soul is sacred?

Like the moon

Like the river

Like the very stars above

No price for soul

No price

Did you trade it for money?

sex

drugs

No price for soul

Have you traded it already?

No you have not

It is untradable

It is yours

Always will be.