It bothers me so much

This detail broke my heart

It was a murder-suicide

A husband

A wife

Huge news

In a town

With a population of 325

I understand

Human lives were lost

I don't discount that

But what really broke me

Was learning

He killed the dogs too

To Run

December 17, 2024

Once, when I wore a younger man's clothes (thanks, Billy Joel)

I ran

I ran instead of walking

Instead of driving

I ran because I could

I lost weight

I gained speed

And strength

And stamina

I ran because I heard the whisper in my ear

That I could soar

On gossamer wings

I would not set records

Except those that held myself accountable

I ran to release

I ran to escape

I ran think

Then I stopped

I had been nearly 30 years

Since I ran

Two nights ago

I got the urge

It was more of a brisk walk

It was more of an endured pain

I had cramps, aches, and shortness of breath

Death laughed at me

Not because it was my time

But, because he enjoyed my self-inflicted misery

Tomorrow, when I am healed,

I will run again

A little farther

A little further

Toward a goal

Known only to three people

Namely me, myself, and I

If Death wishes to join me

I hope he can keep up

I am old

But, he is older

I like my odds

Brandishing fate like a sword

Time a shield

I hide behind in the hopes for ahead

Vanishing gate is restored

I must yield

Or lose my mind knowing I should have fled

Kintsugi.

I agonize some losses more than others. Because of this I ponder for what purpose loving is (at all) if, in the end, that which love creates must also be destroyed by it.’

Truly. To be empty—to remain in pieces, should seem a mercy in contrast. But as I am now, it has forged me.

Kintsugi.

Life reveals, that for every great loss that breaks, so does it gather back—lancing fragments together with the dearest experiences. It has increased my capacity for love, and so the suffering to contain it.

They are parts equal as they are everlasting. Beautiful companions are loss and love: deconstruction, renewal.

J.M.Liles ©️2024

[For Frank]

Flicker is what comes congruent to him

Carries his passion for repercussions

Lamp held upon the unseen revelry

The revulsion of pleas' arrival...

Resonating in a mold fidelity

Forgets knocking if it's taken as rival

Knowing the valid Januaries coming

Tuning to too for getting into

It is not the precaution but a compulsion

Living like wrapped in a polyester fabric

Puncturing the air filled orbs

Inhibited mouth of the pencil

It is not that it's gone to madness

This is what's called inflammation

Never getting the replications wanted

Wished attempts the others' advices

Anticipating the fatality instead

But still granting the "wanting"

Italicizing the commas, flagellating the dot

Resolution of a human in front of a cliffhanger

Pride of savvy the nouns for a short life brander

Resurrection is when it's needed to believe in

It is all happening in a trembling pupil looks towards the life's frontline

Rejuvenating when the expiration of the oneself comes

Wishing this life would be having a lighter meal

Representing when the love of others' showing the signs to oneself

Accompanying this life is what he wishes most

Periods are unable to reach periodicity

Striking back is what they all care about in the time

He doesn't care that though

He just wants to feel prolapsing with the fear he is carrying inside

It has never gone too far till the madness had seen in the horizon

That's what we say losing oneself in booze to this

The sonority is not enough to get the wanted from the far-line

Provisionlessness sequence feels unreal even though it is sprawling in front of the eyes like a feast

Waiting the crash

Still serving the cheese and chocolate sauces

Magnificence is sitting on the throne of divinity

Proud of the oneself with the scratches on the hard skin

Criminal offensiveness...

It is all being seen inside the pupil

Scared to tell the one's story

Slinging heart shaped tears

Smiling tired and letting the water flux through the countenance

Just holying and giving too much to that lunacy on the moon's light side

Vagary or just a small twist he is showing

Syncromania of love and this fatigue

Scared to face the life still

Watching the scenery with amazement

Still loving but so exhausted

So much that he cannot walk anymore

He needs to rest and sit somewhere instead of tiring the legs more

It is all for closing the eyelid and blurring the pupil's vision

...has already arrived.

That is what it means to heal.

Rub sugar in my wounds.

It burns me raw, but at least I smell of sweetness this time.

Not rare meat- where a blood hound used to sniff all my despair to the surface.

And what is a surface without an "underneath"?

And I have so much underneath.

I don't need to be extraordinary to be important.

I can just be an ordinary woman.

Deep, blue eyes, a smile with crinkled eyes-

like tissue paper, a prelude to the present underneath.

A mind, wanting ordinary things.

Yes, I don't have to be amazing to be a part of this world.

I can just be be a woman,

with small gifts,

and a brave smile.

I can just be.

As brilliant a wit and writer as was Wilde,

Why did he see friendship

As “far more tragic” than love?

Was he just being facetious

Or making a glass-half-empty fuss,

Simply because friendships endure

Longer than love? And there are more

Friendships than loveships?

But Mr. Wilde seems concerned

That all relationships will ultimately

End in tragedy. So why bother rating

What is worse: friendship or love?

I much prefer the words of an optimist

Like screenwriter Frank Capra,

Whose angel in “It’s a Wonderful Life”

Said, “Remember, no man is a

Failure who has friends.”

Or the hopeful Tennyson who said,

“Better to have loved and lost

than never to have loved at all.”

It’s all about trying to forge

Relationships with a spirit of hope.

Sometime ago I met a ghost.

He had your eyes, of course, your lips.

Even your dimple on the right side of your once warm mouth.

It is not warm to me anymore, not because you are no longer here...

I should clarify to my readers that you are very much alive. I may not know where, but to be honest I never want to know a thing about you again.

I've lamented you for so long it seems. You were warm only for a time, until the man staring at me was the shedding of skin.

Now, it only comes out when it rains. Your ghost, I mean.

It rattles my windows and thunders down the hall, waking up every room of my mind. Rooms I wanted to keep hidden, behind that attic door of memories too painful to air out during sunny days.

And you are still somewhere far from here, thank God, but when it rains....

When it rains my nightmare comes to life and I am in a puddle by the front door.

Trying to run from any trace of you.

Being around you means learning to read again.

But instead of sounding out letters, I'm puzzling over the tilt of your head.

I'm watching the corners of your mouth.

I'm trying to understand the word scribbled in the shape of your brows.

Why is it so hard to understand the meaning behind the slope of your shoulders?

Can you explain why your laugh seems to rhyme with when you cry?

What kind of vowels are your hands making?

Are those signals in your tone platonic, phonetic, or romantic?

Please write your body language in CAPITALS, because I keep skipping over the consonants and silent E's in your gaze.