We are all broken in pieces,

We need someone to fix us back.

We're losing bit by bit,

We need someone to pick us up.

We've lost ourself in the illusion we never created,

But we can't even come back without breaking it.

The spell took over our spirit

The light started fading away

The hope lost away in an illusion

The darkness filled us in another delusion

Even if we tried we won't ever be the same,

We need someone to bring us back.

We are all broken in pieces,

We need someone to mend us back.

Maisha✏

Oh love, that lake of fire. The one I choose to stand still inside. My surrounding fury will burn me inevitably. Never ceasing to inflict its unmerciful rage. I wear my scars.. like lace around my neck. A delicate noose patiently ready when I am. It's easy for me to smile in the shadow of it's glory. I know even the torment of it's inferno holds greater promise than the smoke that follows. At times I grow weak. Too weak to stand. The flames wither, and dissipate, caging me in a silk cloak of white ash. Soft silence that echoes. Reminding me of the scarlet that once singed me to my bones.

You're here, but not.

You're mine, but not.

You're dead, but not.

I'm not sure how to deal with this. Never have I needed to worry about you this way. When you went out to the market late at night or when you went to parties without me. But never like this. What is happening to you? You don't know and neither do I. So, what do I do?

It's not the same. Our conversations are filled with an awkward presence. It's like you're not the only ghost in the room. And I can no longer hug you the way I used to. I can no longer kiss you tenderly when I leave in the mornings. I can no longer cry into your shoulder when it becomes too much. I can't feel you at all.

It's like you're here, but somewhere else entirely.

It's like you're mine, but we've drifted far apart.

It's like you're here, but no, you really aren't.

And I honestly would prefer you to be gone completely instead of stuck where you are.

Be free.

That's all I really want.

Grey lives, flooded with color

Blue green, blue green.

Fireworks illuminating the sky,

Her smile brightens his world.

Red, green, and white. 

Breakfast together, 

Kissing under the moonlight.

i can hear my breath in your ears

im sorry i didn't brush my teeth

they’ll sink into your knees

blood will bloom and get rid of my uncertainties

i am the epitome of

pain in all your dreams

it's no issue to me if

i get to smoke all your screams

one day i will see you breathing

i come from this family with this string of bad

a string around my upper arm

a string around my neck

a string around my knee

i breathe in fumes i can't not do

im waiting in the bathroom for you

my makeup smeared and you just sneered and now i forget the color of your eyes

i was never a prodigy. this is all so terribly difficult to me.

sunshine and green

shining through your window

the city lights breathe

i see your words catch in his ear

in the corner i sit and breathe very quietly

in a silent-ish moment the disturbed come alive

a shuddery noise rose from her throat as he grabbed her neck and she started to choke

i stand up, feet softly, and cry at the door

nobody tell him what he’s waiting for

oh! a hospital wall!

a breathing and living oddity

taking my heart and breaking it on the floor

breaking your back and youre making a war

oh! a hospital wall!

the pain of the shocks and the smell of the rot

my teeth will fall out and my toes all chopped off

my blood in a goblet and my body on a cross

im not saying you’re mean im just saying im not good enough for being around you and i apologize

im on the edge of stupid and defiant

the defining factor

a substudy of surgeries to make you understand

the non-pain of being me

i think i shouldnt be upset because i’ve got a feel-good family

im the guitar’s cruxifix

a rage of shitty messy gigs

tonight ill piss in your window

tomorrow ill piss on your car

my eyes are glued to your

star lights in a demon spur

a green light means i’ll stay inside my skin

oh, what a temporary shame

when my body fails you will your feet walk the same?

when my heart condemns you will you turn and walk away?

when my eyes are leaking and yours are still tame

i don't know if you'd ever understand pain

and i see you are bleeding under that smile

so you told me what blood was and i understand everything now

in your fishtank skull i see beautiful melodies

some under audit and some stuck in custody

inside his head are flowering blue ribbons

and they wrap around their wrists and they dance around like puppets

by the campfire they glance around teeming blue fire

and the blood blue veins will spill over in turmoil

Do you ever become

So filled with wonder

That you can't sit still?

So amazed

With the world

With physics

And chemistry

And biology

That you are filled with joy?

That you have to walk around

And laugh out loud

And think, 'what an amazing world this is?'

And in that moment

Just be overwhelmed

By how awesome

It is

That everything

Fits together

So perfectly.

And you are so amazed

So excited

You have to tell someone.

I do.

When I try to tell my sister

She walks away

Even as I'm speaking

When I try to tell my mother

She says, "that's nice"

Without looking up

From her phone.

When I try to tell my father

He is too busy

With work

To listen.

Where did I go wrong?

Nothing will ever be the same again, neither you nor me.

Those days of bliss are gone and so is that girl who once was insane enough to believe you.

You may find me alluring and you should, everyone should. That's how I deceive you, that's how I keep you away. 'Cause I know if I lose this facade I may lose what meagre hope I have in my heart to live.

You've stained me enough it's time to paint the canvas anew.

  October 14,

 “This isnʼt like you, I know you."

   I was sitting in one of the chairs in Mr. Wellʼs office. His awkward family photos smiled at me from the desk. I tried not to scowl.

   "No, itʼs not," I agreed.

   "You've a perfect track record and your grades are more than acceptable. You're going to graduate in a month and then you pull this. You know our schoolʼs policy for cheating."

   "I do know it." His tone was disappointed, but I could hear the willingness to understand behind it, eager to come out from the slightest provocation.

   Mr. Wellʼs stood up from his chair, his suit as perfectly trim as the cut of his grey-speckled black hair falling down his head. He sat at the end of his desk, folded his legs over, and sighed at me.

   "I donʼt expect you to treat me any differently," I clarified. "If you're going to suspend me, let me know now so I can deal with the consequences sooner rather than later. And donʼt punish Markus. He had nothing to do with it, I just convinced him to help me."

   He sighed, again. Itʼs one of the many idiosyncrasies of childish behavior that pass on into adulthood. "No, nothing will happen to Markus. Itʼs been a hard year for you, Thomas. Talk to me."

   Pieces of me started to drift away from the room. I was slowly turning to ethereal ashes, fragments slipping up from my body and through the ceiling, to be swirled away with the wind.

   "Yes," I admitted, meeting his eyes. "It has been hard."

   "Is this a result of Samantha and your mother? Be honest."

   The truth is it wasn't. After Samantha, I was destroyed. After my mother, I was numb. A few months passed and what was there left to do, but to be strong? I took long walks in the middle of the night to process everything. I ate well, I exercised, I cried on a regular basis, and I got on with lifeʼs toil. Sure, Iʼd use the sympathy of others to squeeze out some leeway, the same way you might when you're ill. I didnʼt feel good about doing it, but you know as well as I do that we do almost anything to make life a little bit more bearable.

   "It is," I lied. "Itʼs been … difficult." And I knew thatʼs all it took to draw out his sympathy.

   I watched the predictable tilt of his head. The pity all but jumped out from his eyes, relieved to be given an excuse to show itself. His neutral expression turned into that of sad recognition. He stood up, opened his arms, and pulled me into a hug.

   "We'll talk to the schoolʼs councilor and have her write something to your trigonometry teacher. Who is it, again? Mr. Duffel? In any case, you'll go in for a few sessions, and she'll then write something up to help clarify how difficult grieving can be. You wonʼt be punished. If Mr. Duffel gives you any trouble, come back to me."

   The embrace, as odd as it was from one of the schoolʼs faculty, was almost comforting. I could feel his stress of waking up early too many days in a row. I could smell the horrible cologne his wife had bought him, and the evenings he tried to savor with his children, but couldn't, because just like all of us, he was worn down by societyʼs incessant demands.

   "I've known your father ever since your sister was a freshman. Heʼs a good man, but I know it wonʼt help your relationship if he hears about this. We're going to reschedule the test for next week. You study, you ace it, and we'll pretend like this never happened."

   I thanked him, trying to muster some genuine warmth, and left. After the door clicked shut behind me, and the fear of suspension left my chest, I thought to myself, I deserved this, anyways.

  The meeting allowed me to leave almost half an hour early, dodging the chaos of hundreds of students screaming, gossiping, fighting, and making crude jokes as they waited for their rides home.

   I walked until I was on the trail that connected to the neighborhoods near my house. When I didnʼt seen any hikers, I stripped out of the suffocating uniform and got into my usual, much darker, and stranger, garments that I kept in my bag.

   I was free. The time slipped by with music and sliding in the muddy ground, picking up fallen leaves and reveling in the steady decay of autumn. My feet led me to the turn in the trail that had become habit since Samanthaʼs funeral, and they kept stepping forward instinctively, almost detached from my will.

   The clouds came in impossibly intricate layers, illuminated by the sunlight tucked deep beneath their folds. They came quickly, darkly, and lightly through and above the trees, fogging my breath and surrounding me with a soothing chill.

   Out of the thickness of the forest, I breathed in the clean air of the graveyard after greeting one of the security guards. The faded rose petals had tumbled over the grey slates, the tombstones and the entrance to a sepulcher.

   I sat on Samanthaʼs grave with my back to her headstone, writing in my journal and humming one of her favorite pieces, Clair de Lune, while the rain let up. It had become as habitual as exercising on a daily basis.

   No dramatic, one-sided dialogues in which I cried and said things to her I never had the courage to, but always wished to. No weeping and begging for her to come back. No pounding on the ground, as if it wasnʼt just disturbing her sleep anyways.

   I did that once before I realized how silly it was. After that outburst, I just spent some time after classes there. I figured sheʼd like that better, anyways.

   When I stood up, I glanced at my motherʼs tombstone beside hers, trying not to scoff. When she left, I wasnʼt sure whether to be infuriated or devastated. She was battling with the same emotions when she killed herself, wasnʼt she? Whatever demons haunted her, I had eased them into the pages of my journal, and snapped them shut there. They might've killed her, but I wouldnʼt let them do the same to me.

   On the walk back home, I found a piece of notebook paper folded beneath a streetlamp. The handwriting on it was impeccable yet dramatic, flourishing and spreading across the page beautifully. It was a poem. I almost started to read it, before deciding that it desired some quality time with me at my desk, read with candlelight, and not the rushed skimming of a passerby quick to toss it aside right after.

   Words deserve the utmost attention, so long as the person writing them gave them the same concentration.

                                                                    ~

   Locked. I tried it again, thinking I wasnʼt turning hard enough. The door of our house was never locked, since my father was usually home writing more of those steamy erotica novels that got our family name Moore some raunchy prestige. Thatʼs right. Our home was bought and furnished off of the many creative ways you can rewrite the word cock and pussy, complimented by predictable story arcs that only end in the former going inside of the latter in some way or another. Brilliant stuff.

   I try not to remind myself of that too often.

   I quirked an eyebrow and slipped in through the window.

   "Dad!" I called out. "Another week has been vanquished. The adventurer returns home early," I narrated after unlocking the front door and walking up the staircases. Every journey up the steps was a small workout. Iʼm not sure why we chose to dwell in a three story house with only four people.

   Clothes were strewn about the ground. Old dishes were on the mantle, and some flowers that had been plucked three months ago were growing a fungus to keep their rotted stems company. Everything was in perfect order, so where was he?

   "Dad?"

   The chandelier hanging from the ceiling, still as it ever was, glittered in response.

   I shrugged, fixed myself a sandwich, and went into my room for a few hours. I'll spare you those details.

                                                                        ~

   I tried on the Halloween costume I had been losing sleep over, appreciating it in the mirror. Every seam had been stitched myself, and was in its proper place, even if a few of those proper places were dangling in threads.

   Mismatched black and red was the color scheme for the masquerade outfit, with some silver charms that hung from my tunic, and leather gloves to finish it off. I had finished pouring the mold for the mask last night, but never painted it. I liked the bleak, pale look of the plaster and the eerie simplicity of it.

   By now, the sun was deep in its descent, still sequestered from the world by the clouds.

I went into the garage and found his car parked, cold.

   "Dad?" I called again, in case he had come home and not checked on me.

   I walked down the hallway towards his bedroom, my nose catching the scent of something past its expiration date. The house was big enough without all of the rooms being empty, but since Samantha and mom, it was as if my father and I slept with ghosts. Being home alone in the middle of the night had become almost nerve racking.

We put on brave faces every morning, trying to feel normal with just two of us eating breakfast. We even started watching television, something we never did, to fill in the silence.

   The master bedroom was as messy as the house, and the bathroom as vacant.

   Still, I smelled the rancid stench. No dead rats or mice under the bed, no clogged toilet.

   I went for the plants on the mantlepiece, stuffing my nose into the algae-infested water before recoiling. It was bad, but it wasnʼt the cause of the stench.

   I turned to look at the sealed door in the hallway.

   "Your grandfather died in that room. We donʼt go in there," my father had told me since we were children.

   The doorknob had been replaced with a strangely hard, cotton stuffing. No amount of pushing or shoving would budge it, as if it had been glued in. In the times where I attempted to open the door as a child when nobody was home, it only left my arm and shoulder aching. Absolutely nothing could get that door open.

   It had never been used since my father sealed it; it had become apart of the wall, and none of us seemed to care afterward. Itʼs not as if we needed the space.

As if a monster would burst from it, I approached the door in the darkness of the home, hearing the steady hitting of rain against the windows once again. I sniffed at the edge of the door and drew back, shaking my head.

   "You fucking coward. You wouldn't!" I slammed my fists into the wood until my knuckles were bleeding, then threw myself against the door, hearing whatever had sealed it from the inside creaking. He would, he did, I accepted it as I threw myself at it again. By the time I could feel my shoulder bruising, I could feel something giving.

   I took a deep breath, paced backwards, and rushed into it.

   The door splintered and gave. Two fresh planks of wood with shining, protruding nails almost stabbed me as I pushed them aside. My hand pushing the door open, waving away the layers of dust coating the air, wasnʼt enough to block my eyes from the swaying display hanging from the ceiling.

   Flies drew up in swarms off of the corpse and flew out towards me, as if to attack me for discovering their food. I eased myself onto the floor and sat with my back against the doorway. In my peripherals, the motion of his body was as still as the chandelier. 

   My sisterʼs death, an accident. My motherʼs suicide, almost understandable. My father … detestable.

   I wasnʼt surprised when I didnʼt start crying or screaming. It only made sense at this point, to respond with the same silence that the bodies had given me.

   For a writer, he didnʼt leave much in the crumpled note beneath his feet. I tore it up and left the scraps there as I walked back into my room. 

   My phone had some messages from Markus. I skimmed through the requests for a night of gaming and smoking, and dialed.

   "Yes," I said for the second time in my life, "Iʼd like to report a suicide.”

   As I waited for the police, I sat in my chair and took out the poem from my jeans. They typically take around twenty minutes.

Memorabilia shivering

Ethereal whispers calling

Eating away at the dead flesh

Tremors shake in your chest

Masks and costumes alight

Entertainers dance for your delight

Above the ground and the rain

This realm of the mad and inane

Silhouettes greet your entrance

Under the hanging canopies you think


Nothing of this wild, delirium dream

3 strikes of the clock count


Away your hours ’till dawn

Move, move, my friend.

   As if a dead family wasnʼt disappointing enough. I furrowed my eyebrows at the words, trying to make sense of the poetʼs message in his script. Something about grasping time before dying? I sighed and placed it on my desk, beginning to suspect he was overcompensating with his handwriting. Nothing on the backside either, and the sides were ripped, as if it was torn out hastily. 

   With nothing else to do, I brewed some coffee and sipped it as I shared the last few minutes I had with my father, sitting beside his toes pointing toward the ground, swatting away the occasional fly. 

      You can say it just happened, if it happened to you, like it did me. I can't say I planned it, it just happened. 

     I was 23 years old. Lonely, bored and aimless, wondering where I was going with my early 20's life, wondering when, if ever I was gonna find the girl I wanted to marry. Not the girl of my dreams. Didn't believe back then there was such a one, any more than I believe today that there's such a thing as a soul mate. I think anybody you share life with in reciprocal love and respect is, or can be a soul mate, That is, it can be any friend you share a heart to heart with.

     It just happened 40 years ago. I'll take you back, way back. I'm driving on a country road on Price Avenue on the western side of the California San Joaquin Valley. I'm farming, for a large 5,000 acre ranch and I see her comin' in a bright blue Camaro. Well, blue is my favorite color. She waves at me while giving me a the brightest auburn hair and smile I'd ever seen. It's dazzling and magnetic, no escaping it for me. I wave back enraptured.

     She speeds past me and my white Chevrolet pickup and I've lost my thought as to what I'm doing on this dirt, semi-graveled country road. But I collect my thoughts to plot and plot I do. I'm gonna figure out how to excuse myself to approach her close enough whereby I'm not coming on as if I'm really interested in her.

     Prior to this waving event, I'd had a sort of pseudo disdain for her which had been entirely unfair to her. I didn't even know her at the time, but because she'd been hired to replace another young lady of about my age, I projected the firing to have been her fault. Simply stupid of me and biased. At least I admitted as much afterwards.

     I suppose that time healed these unrighteous feelings. I soon forgot about the fired secretary whom this beautiful young lady in the blue Camaro had replaced.

     I wheeled the pickup around as discreetly as I could and approached a parking spot right outside the farming company's shop and attached office wherein she worked. 

     "Could I have some change. I'd like to buy some soda." There was a self dispensing Pepsi machine right outside her office.

     She was standing, her back to the front entrance door, wearing some killer, ultra bright white, skin tight fitting dress pants. Her butt was exquisitely fitted within those pants and I was hungrily staring through them. She spun around quickly, pretty well startled at my abrupt approach. As she did so, piled boxes that had been stacked about her, tumbled to the floor. In her own nervousness, she had stumbled into them.

     "Yes, I'll give you some." Our first exchange of words, approximately 40 years ago. Even now, this just suddenly hits me as if a wonderful fantasy. She and I had been virtual strangers to one another over a period of about 15 days or so, after she'd been hired. First the wave and now our first words.

     She took a few steps toward her desk to retrieve some change, two quarters at the time. She reached out to place them into my hand. My hands were in my pockets, nervously fumbling in mindless agitation. I pulled out my left hand clutching a handful of miscellaneous coins. In short, I had more than enough change to have bought a can of soda. I looked up from looking at my distracting hand to see her smiling face. We both laughed. I stuck the change back in my pocket and took her two coins without even offering to pay her back.

     "Thanks." I said without any further words and ungracefully walked out to the soda machine, enraptured, but maintaining a quiet cool, or so I thought.

     I couldn't stop thinking about her any time after that. It was difficult to concentrate on my work. I had noticed a white dove icon on the rear windshield of her Camaro and figured she was a christian. Being a christian myself, it occurred to me that I'd ask her for a date.

     The next day, I worked the nerve to ask her whether she'd go to church with me. It was in the afternoon almost time for us to call it a day. I'd been hearing her voice on the radio throughout the day as she corresponded with various employees working on the ranch. I began to love hearing her voice and in the process couldn't wait to talk to her again.

     I entered her office and as I stepped in, looked down on her as she was seated behind her desk, just as a secretary would. As God is my witness, as my eyes met her own bright green ones, a bright jewel like flash of sparkling light emanated from her eyes to mine. It was just like I'd seen in one the Monkees television shows I'd watched. Two of the characters who had fallen in love on one scene had the same experience.  Later in our relationship, she related that she'd had also seen sparkling light sparkle out of my eyes into hers.

     "I wanted to ask you if you'd like to go to church with me?" 

     "Okay." She responded innocently, you can come with us, my mom and brother and me." Her green eyes contrasted beautifully with her glowing auburn hair.

     "Great. What time?"

     "Meet me at my house at 8:00 a.m., Sunday morning."

     I was ecstatic, it had been easier than I thought it would be. What amazed me the most was how readily she had accepted my invitation. In retrospect, I wondered how I had made the invitation to church when I didn't even have a church to go to. But I suppose subconsciously, I figured she'd fill in the gaps.

     I knocked on the screen door of her house. Her mother answered with a slight southern drawl that contained a cheery tone. I saw her tall figure and attractive face through the screen mesh. I felt welcomed by a total stranger.

     "Terry, someone's here to see you." 

     I felt a surge of elation as I heard her daughter run to the door. She was wearing a beautiful white dress with thin bordered margins of candy red pink. Again, I was elated. My heart beat with joy and anticipation.

     The next morning she invited me to lunch. She was wearing those amazing white dress pants again. I was beginning to feel light headed every time I saw her. In fact to assuage these feelings somewhat, I found reasons to talk with her on the two way Motorola radio. I'd ask questions pertaining to tractor assignments and their corresponding drivers and fields of  cultivation, just to hear her voice and connect to her.

     She had brought me a sandwich and invited me to eat in her car. Everything she had for carrying the contents of her lunch was colored purple and various hues of it.  Purple was and still is, her favorite color. 

     Her thermos was dark purple with a lighter tone of it for a cap. I remember her unscrewing it and pouring tea. She said she loved tea. She offered me a sip. It was refreshing because she gave it to me. It was refreshing to see her lean over, waist down as she reached for items down and across her seat. Her pants strained against her thighs and the waist band fitted her in an alluringly sleek fashion. Seven. She later told me she was a size 7. The first time a woman's size ever occurred to me and retained unforgettable.

     "Would you like to drive with me to return a library book back to the University?" It was something I had to do and on impulse asked if she'd go.

     "Sure. What time?"

     We drove to the library and on the way back to her house, I plotted to ask her an important question. It had only been 3 days since she'd waved and exchanged a few words and coins for my soda. My Opal Kadett sedan, with its 1.1 liter engine, was missing its muffler, so it was difficult to speak and hear each other during our transit. Not romantic at all, right?

      We were approaching the intersection of Poulsen and Wylam avenues. The remaining mile to that point seemed to diminish upon itself in slow motion. My heart beat at a higher rate than normal. How would I ask her the question? Would she be offended? I rehearsed my form of approach to the question over and over again to the point of irrelevant ambiguity and redundancy, making myself inwardly delirious with over thinking.

     "This is it. I've got to do it." I thought. 

     Nope. It wouldn't happen. I stopped for the stop sign. Lost my nerve. Looked both ways for oncoming traffic. Empty country roads as far as the eye could see. The setting sun cast a yellow orange light across barren, fallow fields, interspersed with farming equipment that lay stoic across the vision of my half hypnotized state of mind. 

     First gear. Small engine, high rpm. Second gear. High rpm, high raucous muffler noise. Ear splitting racket to match. How could she tolerate the noise? She's some girl. 4th gear. One gear left . . .

     "So. Would you live with a guy like me?" I half way shouted.

     "I don't think so. I don't believe in living with someone without marriage."

     I contemplated. "Wow." I thought while performing some quick mental calculations having to do with appropriately delivered interactive social norms. "So far she seems open minded to this near stranger. She actually rode with me on a silly 100 mile round trip to to deliver a stupid library book. There's hope."

     Another half mile or so elapsed. "So. Would you marry a guy like me?" 

     "Stupid, awkward line," I thought to my introspective self.

     "I'd marry you, but not live with you unless we were married."

     "Wow!" Again. I'd never asked any girl such a difficult question. I had totally botched my delivery. My timing had been off, awkward due its setting, but I'd pulled it off almost in a desperate way. Everything had been a whirlwind. I'd asked her to marry me and it seemed she'd accepted. 

     We married 3 months after my weird proposal. All her friends said it would never work out. We'd be divorced like them. 

     Still married today, November 13, 2016. Two strangers who met and agreed to marry after a 3 day acquaintance, 40 years ago. Two beautiful children followed, along with dogs, cats and a home. 

     I love you more each day. Happy anniversary Terry!

Tonight is my night 

     and I'll tell you why

When she's in sight, 

     when she's passing by

Quiet your step, 

     don't kill my surprise

A lifetime of prep, 

     of severing ties

I'm ready now, 

     she's ready too

I'll show you how 

     when she is in view

Be quiet and still, 

     I hear her sweet voice

It gives me a chill, 

     I've made my choice

It's time to move, 

     here she is now

Just be real smooth, 

     no sweat off the brow

Today is the day, 

     I'm taking her home

No more delay, 

     no more being alone

We'll just fall in step, 

     a little behind

Darkness will set, 

     she'll be rendered blind

She's taking a turn, 

     not her usual route

Can't help but yearn 

     for a new run about

This alley is new, 

     not been here before

Once we are through, 

     can't hide anymore

"So glad you're here, 

     now you can stop!"

Her voice loud & clear 

     made my heart hop.

"It's loaded and ready, 

     do as I say!"

"Now easy, be steady, 

     we'll do it your way."

"I've waited for this, 

     been watching you,

I just can't resist 

     and my love is true."

What did she say? 

     I must be confused.

What game does she play? 

     I'm not amused!

"I don't understand 

     the things I just heard,

I must demand, 

     you explain your word!"

"I'm not insane, 

     you'll think I am

Then you'll try to blame 

     me for this jam.

I have watched you, 

     I know who you are

I'll give you a clue, 

     just get in the car."

Too shocked to say no, 

     I do as she asks

Where will we go? 

     Do my best to relax

This day took a turn, 

     I can't deny that

Anxious to learn 

     whose next up to bat

"You won't leave my side, 

     soon you'll agree

You're here for the ride, 

     forever with me."

One hand on the wheel, 

     one on the gun

Her words make me reel, 

     think I have won

"You don't need a threat, 

     I won't run away

The gun makes me sweat, 

     I swear I won't stray."

She laughs like a loon, 

     speeding along

It's soon to be noon, 

     she plays me a song.

That night we were wed 

     in a very small church

She took me to bed, 

     my heart did a lurch

I'm hers there's no doubt, 

     how I want it to be

What life is about 

     having her next to me.