they call us young

call us old

call us cowards

call us bold

say we're worthy

fight our fights

no, not today

and not tonight

get back in your box

don't try to fight

it's not your time

not in your rights

you've got no choice

you poor dumb fools

we'll puppet you

you're only tools

shut up

be quiet

get back to your booze

get drunk on the success

we've given to you

here, drink up these theories

chug down some ideals

you're here for a reason

to serve and be still

shhhhh

big brother is here

it's alright

shhhhh

big brother is always

here

for

you.

Myra sits back in her rocking chair, second beer opened and closes her eyes. Her mind drifts to the last night her and Patrick spent together.

The phone rang disturbing Myra’s descent into the voice of her favorite bellowing, pleading, long dead poet understood too late. She opened her eyes, leaned forward and picked up the cordless landline telephone, while she used her now primitive stereo remote to pause the song. She looked at the called ID and saw the name “Patrick” illuminated in the glowing window. She answered this 10pm phone call knowing exactly why it was being made.

“Hello Patrick.” She said, with particular knowledge of his dishonorable intentions. She was conflicted having just returned the night before from Las Vegas where she and Colin had made their final decision to live together in her apartment in Massachusetts. She had finally made that commitment that she had avoided with career driven caution and a singular purpose of ambition. She knew this would be the last time she’d be able to be with Patrick and the immorality of never saying goodbye was a regret she didn't wish to carry.

“HI.” replied Patrick.

“I haven't heard from you in months. How have you been?” Myra asked with a tone that made it obvious she knew why he was calling but hoped maybe it was just to talk. She was wrong.

“Yea I know. I've been really busy. But i've been thinking about you.” Patrick replied.

“The past few months, or just tonight?” Myra asked while she turned the stereo off and started to put her shoes on.

“Does it matter?” Patrick asked jokingly.

She wanted to say, “I wish it did.” but she knew the comment would be wasted on any man with the intention Patrick had for his phone call. Instead she said, “I guess not. So, what were you thinking about?” As she walked into the kitchen to the phone base knowing she would be placing the headset on it in a matter of seconds.

“I was thinking we should watch a movie together tonight.” Patrick said with the same shakiness he always had when he attempted to be the aggressor in their relationship. It felt as unnatural to Myra as it did to Patrick. He was never the aggressor. She hunted him from the moment she lay eyes on him and he submitted like wounded prey. It was their dynamic and it worked for what they were supposed to be to each other. Had they not become more, they might have had a chance to stay friends throughout the years.

Myra began to put on her tailored, black coat as she listened to Patrick breathe in a pause.

“So’, she asked, “Did you want me to come over right now?”

He answered with the voice of a man she did not recognize. “Yes Myra. I want you here right now.” Her arousal was coupled with excitement that she hadn't felt for him before. Myra knew this was the last time they could ever be together. Colin was her other half, and he knew how to love her in the way she thought she needed to be loved. Colin fed into her desire and added unyielding obsession, which could be confused as true affection for the young. What they had was not love. How could it be? But Myra settled for what appeared to be real instead of appreciating the authenticity of Patrick.

“Then we’d better hang up the phone. Do you want me to pick up some wine or beer on my way?” She asked.

“No. I bought a couple bottles of pinot noir earlier when i rented the movie.” Patrick said.

“You did. Have you been planning this Patrick, or did you just get in the mood to call me after a couple glasses of wine?” Myra asked with accusation.

“I haven’t even opened the wine yet, Myra. I am waiting for you.” Patrick replied.

“How long will you wait for me Patrick?” Myra asked playfully.

“Longer than you'd ever wait for me.” Patricks tone was so different than it had ever been before. There was seriousness in it.

“Patrick…” Myra began speaking with sorrowful regret.

“Myra, just head over. We can talk when you get here. OK? I want to see you, drink some wine, watch a movie, and just be together. Can we just do that? Like we used to...before.” Patrick said without hesitation.

Myra thought to herself that had Patrick been like this more often, Colin might not be moving in with her. Her love for Colin felt undoubtedly palpable but as time revealed was flawed. Her love for Patrick was something different. It was innocent, effortless and genuine. Myra didn't know that was love. She hadn't any frame of reference for feelings like those. Life had always been deceptive and far too real. Patrick was an escape for her, and for Patrick, Myra was a tough reality.

“I'm on my way.” Myra hung up the phone, coat on and keys in hand. She walked out the door of her apartment, and noticed she was quickly hoping down the staircase taking two steps at a time. There was an excitement in her knowing that these were the last moments she would spend with Patrick and she didn't want to waste one second of time getting to him. She opened the heavy, green, hallway door and the porch creaked under her foot from her quick step. She didn't care that her desperation was being revealed to the neighbors. She wanted to be with Patrick as soon as she could get to him. Climbing into her beat up old, woody, jeep wagoneer Myra pulled the door closed using the vice grips she had secured to the broken interior handle. A trick she had learned from Colin. She felt confused that there was no guilt in her heart when she thought of Colin, but didn't let the thought linger, she had a place to be and Colin wasn't invited. She drove with purpose through the vacant, night streets and approached a red light. She tried to will it green as she sat counting the seconds watching the other light at the intersection waiting for it to turn yellow knowing that the eternity she was waiting would soon be over. The light turned green and she pushed her foot hard to the gas pedal and within just a few minutes was in front of Patrick's house. She turned the car off. Myra’s anticipation was replaced with hesitation for about 30 seconds. She didn't want Patrick to see her enthusiasm so she composed herself.

Just as she was about to open the car door, vice grips clutched in her hand, she saw a figure standing behind the screen door of the house. It was Patrick, he was watching, waiting for her to arrive. She exited the jeep and he opened the screen door. The chivalry wasnt unusual but his stature appeared more masculine as Myra never broke her gaze from Patricks form. He was beautiful in the way a treasured lover is when you know the affair must end. She walked up the three small steps to the platform where Patrick stood, still holding the door. He was motionless while she walked by him to enter the house. Their eyes were fixed in contact and Myra stood next to Patrick as he closed the door. She could smell the fresh, recognizable soap on his skin and smiled with knowledge that he showered for her. His green and yellow striped sweater clung to his body as if it were tailored and Myra noticed a frayed yarn at the neck. She moved her hand to touch the errant fiber and he stood stoic as her fingers brushed against a vein hidden by freckled olive skin. She could feel his pulse moving rapidly, which happened often when they were together. Myra remembered lying her head on his chest while recovering from love making listening to the lullaby of his heart. She moved her hand back to her side.

“I put the movie in already, I'll start it after I open the wine.” Patrick announced as he walked into the 90s modernized kitchen taking two wine glasses out of the blue cabinet. Myra loved to watch Patrick move. He was aware of every motion and controlled his body with a strange confidence lacking arrogance. Myra was waiting, sitting on the couch, while Patrick placed the empty glasses in front of her. He walked back into the kitchen and Myra heard the pop of the cork. Patrick carried the bottle into the living room and poured her a heaping glass of wine. He looked at her and smiled his cheshire grin, Myra echoed the expression while he walked in front of her, sat down by her side then poured his own glass with equal amounts of wine. He picked up the remote and pressed play. Patrick looked at Myra as he placed the remote back on the wooden table. He lifted his glass of wine and she followed.

“This is really good. It's a red but its light.” Myra said.

“It's a pinot noir, which is my favorite wine lately. Catherine, my boss recommended it to me.” He replied.

“Oh yes, CATHERINE. Your forty something boss who likes to watch and talk to you while you are cooking. One would think that her business would suffer with all the time she spends in the kitchen flirting with you.” Myra said as she drank more wine.

“Yea right. She just wants to guide and help me.” He said in seriousness.

“She wants to guide your penis into her vagina.” Myra said as she took another sip of wine.

“She does not want to sleep with me. You are seeing something that isn't there.” Patrick replied with general ignorance caused by adolescent innocence,

“ Patrick I saw it in her when I brought you to work and she was outside. Her malevolent stare coupled with her unsolicited advice on our situation is proof as well.” She said.

“What situation would that be?” he said with his little boy smirk.

Myra looked at him with raised brow and knowing smile, “You know exactly what I mean.”

The movie played on unwatched in the background serving its purpose as a reason for the evening.

“Another glass?” Patrick asked as he began to pour.

“Patrick, I have to drive home.” Myra looked at him to tell him to stop the pour short.

Patrick met her look and replied, “No Myra, you dont.” This forward behavior was unlike him. Myra was as aroused as surprised and was struck without words at the seduction in his declaration of invitation. He leaned back into the sofa while sipping his glass of wine. Myra crossed her legs and also sank into the plush, chocolate sofa, her glass of wine resting on her knee balanced with her fingers.

“Wine makes me sleepy.” Patrick said in a sweet immature tone. “I'm going to lay on the couch, if you don't mind?” Myra took his glass and put both goblets on the coffee table in front of them. They both kicked off their shoes and Patrick extended his legs on the couch, Myra lay down with him.

“This is weird. Isn't it? Don't you feel weird about.. “ Myra rolled her eyes and immediately said, “There's nothing weird about. Stop being stupid.” Patrick smiled and looked down. Myra always found that charming.

The back of her body was spooned into his and she felt warm and safe. Patrick held her as tight as he always had and stroked her hair while her head rested on his arm. She closed her eyes and nestled into his sweater, smelling his clean skin through the open knit. His cheek was pressed against her head and his arm lay naturally across her waist. He moved his hand from her waist and put it on her shoulder, moving it down to her hand. He took her hand and entwined their fingers. She closed her eyes and let herself love the comfort of the closeness.

She let herself just be close with Patrick. There were no expectations. He just wanted to lay with her, hold her hand, smell her hair, let her fall into him. She closed her eyes and felt herself slip away to the rhythm of his breath and the warmth of his body. This is her Patrick. The amiable, charming, innocent Patrick who just wanted to hold her and be close to her. As she began to drift deeply into her perfect moment she felt Patrick put his hand down the front of her shirt and cup her right breast. The dream was over and it was time to wake up.

She opened her eyes and looked at his hand massaging her breast feeling the tip of his finger carefully touch her nipple. He loved her breasts and caressed them with consideration and admiration. Myra turned her head to see his face and he had the intoxicated look of a man overcome with sexual desire. She was strangely disappointed as she moved her arm from her side and put her hand on the back of his head bringing his mouth to hers. The disappointment subsided with the kiss. Myra loved Patricks lips that's taste was as familiar as her own.. She kissed him and he moved his hands from her breasts to her face. He looked at Myra and they paused for a few seconds knowing that this was not a night of lust. He moved his arms around her waist and she kept her arms around his shoulders. They kissed each other softly and constantly. They were no longer different people, they were no longer divided.

Myra wrapped her legs around his hips and Patrick maneuvered on top of her. Myra grabbed the bottom of Patricks sweater and pulled it with his undershirt shirt up over his head and off his body. She threw the layered duo to the floor. Patrick moved his body down to her waist and gently placed his hands under her shirt, lifted it off, holding the neck of the shirt open so it didn't touch Myra's face. He was mindful of her body while he kissed her stomach and he unhooked her bra. She wanted to be naked with him, so she could feel his skin against hers. She wanted to connect with his body. She let him take her bra off for her and place it gently on the table. He kissed her breasts with tiny, precise, blossoming puckers while she ran her fingers through the thick, dusted, crimson waves of his coarse hair. The stubble from his face tickled her body and the warmth of his tongue kept the chill of the winter away.

He lifted his head to see her watching him and glide his mouth to hers. He kissed her again and she pressed her hands deeply into the muscles in his back, while their bare chests found comfort in the frictioned heat of each other. Patrick unbuttoned Myra’s jeans and then his own. They disrobed the remainder of their clothing with simpatico timing. Their bodies were more comfortable in this natural state then they were fully clothed. Organic and pure their figures belonged in this condition and only with each other. She felt him enter her gently and when she gasped with the arrival of his extremely well endowed greeting, he smiled. Myra smiled back at him and they kissed each other again. Her legs around his and his arms cradling her torso they moved in the most perfect rhythm. The movie was well over and the silence was interrupted with the sounds of their bodies connecting with every possible option.

“Patrick.” She whispered out of breath.

Myra looked directly into his eyes, hands on his cheeks and let the heat of passion and the reality of finality bring down her walls, “Patrick, I love you.” She said through labored breath. It was only a second before Patrick replied, “Will you say it again?” They were still in constant motion, they had never stopped. “I love you, Patrick.” Just then their bodies knew this pleasure was about to end. It couldn't last any longer. Patrick pulled out his penis before he ejaculated, which changed the course of their future forever. When he took his penis out, his ejaculate literally spewed with the pressure of a canon. When this happened some of it hit Myra in the face. She froze and Patrick looked at her with his jaw dropped and fear in his eyes. Over the years of their affair Patrick and Myra had numerous conversations about the appropriate time to ejaculate in a woman's face versus doing it in order to let her know that she means nothing to you. Myras mind immediately triggered to shame and Patrick grabbed his boxer shorts and started to wipe the cum off her face pleading for her to believe him that this was not intentional.

“Myra, i didn't mean that. I didn't know it would shoot that far. Please believe me.” he said in desperation.

Myra lay on the couch letting him clean her face and couldn't think of anything to say. She believed that he had done it intentionally in order to hurt her for ending their affair to be with Colin. She convinced herself that all those candid, open conversations about this action were his is ammunition to let her know exactly why he did that to her. She believed he wanted to let her know she was nothing but a whore to him. Someone who was only good to fuck and nothing else.

“Myra, please talk to me. I didn't mean to do that. I didn't know it would go that far. Out. Myra, please talk to me...please!” Begging Patrick kept wiping her face, even though the ejaculate was long gone.

“Its fine. You couldn't have meant it right? We both feel the same way about why a man would do that to a woman and of course you'd never do that to me, right?” She was meanly sarcastic. She was hurt. Something she thought was so perfect was now twisted in her mind. Everything was different, bruised and tainted. The passion was replaced by nausea and she wanted to leave, immediately. Enmity lit every cell in her body to anesthetize the misery of her broken heart. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of sadness. Had she not been thrown into rage she might have noticed the sincerity of the fear Patrick was feeling.

“Myra, please believe me, I didn't mean that to happen. I wouldn't do that to you. You know I wouldn't do that to you.” He tried to kiss her and she moved her face away. She didn't want to kiss him. She was hiding tears and violent rage. “Myra, please, I really didn't mean to do that. You cant think i would ever do that intentionally. Myra, PLEASE.” Patrick pleaded with her but Myra sat silent. He was the one man she believed would never hurt her nevertheless defile her. But in her mind that's exactly what he did. Whether or not he meant for his ejaculate to hit her in the face, it did and there was no convincing Myra that it wasn't intentional. She felt it was his way of getting back at her. She believed he did it because it was the most effective way for him to tell her how little she meant to him. She was assured this was an intentional act and that he was lying to her in order to satisfy himself.

“Its fine, Im still a little drunk, do you mind if i sleep it off on the couch?” She asked with an emotionless tone devised over a series of years of having to hide the truth. She knew how to pretend and this situation called for that disorder. “Myra, just come to bed with me.” Patrick said with the resonance of a prayer. “You don't have to sleep on the couch.” Patrick said.

“Yes...I do.” Myra replied as stoic as he earlier words. She shut down. Patrick took an orange and brown, home knit afghan off the back of the easy chair parallel to the sofa and unfolded it. Myra finished putting her clothes back on and lay down on the couch. Patrick lovingly tried to drape the afghan over her in a final attempt at affection. Myra took the blanket from his hands before he could cover her and said, “You don't have to pretend you give a shit, Patrick. Save it for someone else. I don't need it. I'm going to sleep this off and then i'll leave.”

Patrick’s face was poisoned with regret for the unintentional act which destroyed everything. He made an attempt one last time to make Myra understand that what happened was not intentional.

“Myra, if you can't get comfortable, you can come to bed with me. I promise, we don't have to do anything. You can just sleep.” Patrick said in a kind, loving tone.

“The only reason I would come to bed with you Patrick is if I wanted something to happen. Go to bed. I’ll be gone soon enough.” She said with her eyes closed as she turned away from him to face the back of the couch. She didn’t want to look at him. She couldn’t look at him and refuse him anything.

“You don’t have to leave.” Patrick said as he walked out of the room, but Myra didn’t answer. She quietly wept into the pillow as her mind thought of Colin and how she had betrayed him for a man who would defile her in such a way. Colin was cruel in other ways but he would never have done anything so distasteful. What Patrick did Myra believed was to shame her, to make her understand how unimportant and worthless she is to him. She finally managed to fall to sleep. Patrick lay there in bed, knowing that he had to prepare something to say in the morning. “In the light of day, sober from the wine, she will be able to understand that it was an accident.” he thought to himself like a mantra as he closed his eyes and let his mind and body rest.

The morning sun shining through Patrick’s bedroom window woke him quickly. He wanted to wake up before Myra and try and salvage what was left of their ailing friendship. He looked over at the digital clock radio sitting atop a indian design piece of fabric upon his hand me down dresser. He jumped from his bed and put on his jeans and took a sweatshirt that was draped over his tattered, brown bedroom chair. He walked quietly but swift to the living room to see if Myra was still there. She was. She has sleeping soundly and he watched her for a few seconds. He had a feeling of anxiety wondering what the morning would bring with Myra. He hoped her having slept and the wine metabolized may allow for her to be capable of understanding his sincerity was genuine. He brewed coffee and the aroma drifted into the living room arousing Myra's senses, waking her up in a matter of seconds. She opened her eyes and realized where she was. As she sat up she could hear Patrick in the kitchen, waiting for her to make the first move, and Myra didn't disappoint.

She walked through the kitchen to get to the bathroom. She looked at Patrick and smiled a closed mouth smile, letting him feel as if things might be ok, for the moment. She entered

the bathroom and looked at the wallpaper covered with powder pink and pastel yellow flowers. She opened the linen cabinet door and took out a washcloth. She proceeded to clean her face, rinsing away all of last nights slept on makeup. He face was naked and she thought to herself, “I wonder if he will like what he sees?” but she really didn't care, her true self wasn't his to like. Not anymore. That moment had passed with his foolish act and before she finished brushing her teeth, she knew she would make sure he lived to regret it. There is no facade in a mirror image. It is alarming and revealing. Those who can look into the mirror without the result being quiet psychological devastation have the convenience of simplicity or the gift of narcissism. Myra looked at herself knowing what she was about to become. Her reflection demanded that the tears escaping from her eyes be wiped away to prepare herself for the intended havoc.

Myra opened the door and walked toward the kitchen. Patrick was standing with his backside leaning on the counter. His jeans hung from his adolescent hips his sweatshirt draped his torso hiding his beautiful skin. He took a mug filled with black coffee and handed it to Myra. He knew she liked her coffee black, he didn't have to ask.

“Do you want to go outside on the deck?” Patrick asked.

“Sure.” Myra answered rethinking her plan to destroy what was left of them. It was damaged pride mixed with guilt that fueled her plan, not hatred. She could never hate her Patrick. He was her Patrick but she never felt like she was anyone’s Myra. That kind of emotional detachment can propel malicious actions, where there should only be honest communication. Myra sipped her coffee. She smiled at the deep flavor with a hint of cinnamon. Patrick was always creative with spices. She leaned against the naked, wood railing and stared out into the trees. She was imagining how happy they could be, if she had followed her heart and not her pride. But that was not Myra’s way, at least not then. He stood facing her while he leaned his hip against the same railing.

“What are you thinking about?” He asked her sincerely. She turned her head and looked at him. Everything in her heart told her not to say what she was going to say. Her soul screamed at her to stop, but her mind, her damaged, mistreated mind ignored her heart and spoke the words that ended what they were or ever could be.

“I was just thinking, that after I leave here, we are never going to see each other again.” She said the words without emotion looking Patrick directly in the eyes. He looked away from her. A scowl took over his face.

“Why?” He asked, with a sneer. Myra was surprised, there was no sadness in his reply, just anger.

“Well, Colin will be here in a week and there's no way he's going to let me see you or let you call the house. I can't really blame him. I'm sure you understand. Good thing you got your last shot in, huh? Myra, bringing the mug to her lips, said with the same coldness and matter of fact tone she used the evening before.

“I told you, I didn't mean to do that. And i'm so sorry. Why can't we just still be friends? Why can't we still talk?” Patrick asked loudly. Myra was concerned that his neighbors would hear, but Patrick didn't care. There was a wildness in Patrick that Myra was privileged to see. It made what came next even more difficult. “Why can't we just still know each other?”

“Because we can't. I'm in love with Colin…” Myra was interrupted.

“Yea you're so in love with him but you spent last night with me.” Patrick said as he threw the rest of his coffee out of the mug off the side of the deck into the discolored, dew covered, unkempt lawn.

“What happened last night had nothing to do with love, obviously.” Myra lied with confidence and cruelty. Patrick threw the mug and it smashed against the tree.

“Why are you like this! Why! Why! Why!” He screamed at her. “Why can't you just be the same, all the time! You cold, evil, bitch!” Patrick held back tears as he continued. He put his hands up. ” You know what?” He walked closer to her and put his face in front of hers looking her directly in the eye. “I'm glad this is over. I never want to see you again, Myra. Never again, for the rest of my life, do I ever want to see you.” He said, in slow, quiet, meanness. It scared Myra, she had never seen this Patrick. In fact, it aroused her in a very strange way. She wanted to kiss him right there, but instead smiled in is face and said, “No problem. Thanks for the coffee and the cum.” She gently put the mug on the railing, and turned away.

“You make me wish I had done it on purpose.” Patrick said under his breath as she walked toward the door. She knew at that moment that what happened the night before wasn't intentional. But she couldn't go back. It was better that it was over. She needed Patrick to hate her. If he didnt, she would go to him whenever he called and become the kind of woman that she didn't want to be. She walked into the house, into the living room and picked up her purse. Patrick followed behind her. He didn't want to end things that way.

“Myra…” He said as she opened the screen door to walk to her car. She didn't answer him or look back. She just kept walking towards the car. There were tears running down her face and she didn't want Patrick to see.

“Myra!” Patrick attempted one last time to call her back to say goodbye properly. Myra heard him but got into her jeep, put the keys in the ignition and drove away looking at Patrick, through streaming tears, standing in the doorway of his house. She turned the corner, stopped the car, put it in park and just continued to cry. She let it all out and everything in her told her to drive back to his house. She knew she couldn't. If she went back to his house, she would never want to leave him. Her life was set. It was time to let him go. No matter how much she didn't want to.

That was the last time Myra saw Patrick... until today. She opened her eyes, awake from the memory, her face wet from tears and grabbed a tissue to dry her cheeks. She blew her nose which made a honking sound from all the congestion created while reliving a moment she had never allowed herself to think about. She stood up, grabbed her beer, walked into the kitchen and dumped it down the sink leaving the bottle with it. She walked into her bedroom, lay down on the bed and put the television on. Just then she heard her son walking up the staircase and heard him come in the front door.

“Mama!” He yelled.

“I'm in here, Oliver!” she yelled back. Oliver walked to Myra’s bedroom and saw her laying on the bed. He sat down on the bed.

“Mama, were you crying?” He asked with loving concern.

“I was just thinking about something sad, sweetie,” She replied to assure him it was nothing.

“Well stop thinking about sad things.” He said seriously.

“Yes Oliver. As usual you are right. Want to watch something?” Myra asked while sitting up.

“Sure, Mama. But let's watch something funny, ok?” He said as he kicked his shoes off.

“Obviously.” said Myra as she smiled.

I have these visions

Running through my head

Always

Reminiscent of words you once said

I run into your arms

But you draw away

To caress my face

And that’s when the vision begins to fade

I awake

Back into reality

And every single time

I’m left behind

Awaiting

To unwind

My hearts own mess

These bittersweet echoes

Of mockingjays in my head

I would ask if you remember me.

You would probably see me cry,

While I apologise profusely.

I would tell you how much I respect you,

How I want your happiness.

Then begin to stress,

Thinking I have gone to far.

I would search you eyes for a sign.

I would wonder how you have been.

Saying I have been fine,

Hoping you have been too.

We have not seen each other for a while,

I do hope you are doing well,

And have everything you could possibly want.

I know you deserve it.

I would again apologise for my behavior,

My nosey obsessive actions.

Then I would bid you farewell.

“In French, you don’t really say ‘I miss you. You say ‘tu me manques,’ which is closer to ‘you are missing from me.’ I love that.’You are missing from me.’ You are a part of me, you are essential to my being. You are like a limb, or an organ, or blood. I cannot function without you.” ~ Unknown

“When I say that I miss you, what I really mean is that your face wakes me from a dark place, your comforting familiarity dissolving in dawn mist like drifting smoke.

That life rushes in to replace my dreams as you slip away from me once more. I grasp for you with arms that will never quite reach you again.

I am empty of you.

I mean that I rise, wondering if you have woken too, and if you are drinking tea in golden sunlight, making plans as I am. I question if you slept all night or whether you tossed and turned, tormented by memories. Did you think of me when you woke? Did you push your unruly hair out of sleep-heavy eyes or leave it in a kissable tangle for someone else’s lips to explore?

When I say that I miss you, I mean that you are a beautiful puzzle piece, carved out of my soul, your intricate pattern forming part of my life picture. There is a space that always longs for you, that can never be filled if you are not here to gently love me.

It means that I yearn for what we were, how we were, the endless possibilities of us. I miss comforting your anxieties, sharing mine; tackling them together, side-by-side. I miss knowing what excites you today, what exquisite morsel of learning has found you and motivated you to try something new. I miss the way you brought me your dreams and your dramas and how I loved you endlessly through both.

When I say I miss you, what I actually mean is, I long for the tender way you say my name and the way yours tastes in my mouth. The way you steal my tears away with soft lips, like the nectar of a goddess. I mean that when my eyes scan the surging crowd, I look for you. I hear your laughter pulsing just around the corner, always a step away.

I mean that I will eternally search for you in the magic of books, in beautiful lyrics and in the kind eyes of innocent souls.

Now you are just a polite stranger with memories sealed firmly away. Our easy discussions, our deepest thoughts flowing molten like lava, are replaced by artificial small talk, meaning nothing. The fire, the freedom, the intensity-all gone. Triviality has never been—and can never be—our story.

It was all a dream.

The cold silver face of the moon brings me hope, a celestial divinity that dances for us both across a diamond studded sky. Wherever you are now, I know you worship her too and I hold to that. I send her silent messages and imagine that they glide back to you on radiant moonbeams. Perhaps they do.

I am weary from dancing alone with the ghost of you. It’s time to change the song, to release you from my loving arms. It’s time for me to dance on without you. It is easier now.” - Jojo Rowden

I remember that I don’t know you, not anymore.

I remember how it felt to be inside your head

And I sometimes wonder

If you miss being in mine

you aren't gone yet,

but you're going away.

and when you leave, you'll leave a trail of stars

dotting the galaxy,

screaming "I was here"

in case I ever forget you.

I'll follow your stars,

but they'll lead me back to where we're standing now.

your voice will drift in from the heavens, your

it's alright it's alright again and again

like some eternal answering machine.

that's the worst feeling.

at first it'll burn my tongue

and then its fire will travel down my throat,

and I'll wonder how it once felt to breathe

and know that you were breathing also.

then, you will feel galaxies away

and the fire inside of me will become coal in my stomach

and settle there.

the truth will feel like a thousand dead stars

that still burn in the sky because I am light years away

and from here you still burn brightly

because

you are still alive.

but you tell me you are going

and that you've packed up your bags

so I guess the worst feeling is that

sometimes it's as if you've really left

and if I stare at you too hard you disappear.

you aren't gone yet,

and thank god for that.

you've got one foot in the next life

and I'm holding onto the part of you that's still here,

that's still holding on,

that doesn't really want to let go.

so

it doesn't hurt as much

now.

Disclaimer: this isn't poetry or a story.

There was a time, going as far back in history you choose to go, when humanity would actually write (or print words) on papayrus, wood, silk, linen, and a thing called paper.

These items would either be hand-delivered to where you either lived or worked, either by horse or coach. In the beginning the cost was free, until some idiot decided the best thing to do was charge to have it delivered, it would help pay the King or Tyrant, to keep his clothes nice and clean (okay that was severe sarcasm).

Now to fast forward, in the Americas, the cost to mail a letter started at one penny, and would be hand-carried to a residence once the city received mail from other cities usually by wagon, coach and even boat before the railroad was built. This, like what I mentioned before, generally took days and sometimes weeks to deliver.

Moving forward more, while the railroad was being built from east to west and west to east, an orgainization was put together called The Pony Express. Die-hard young men and women who would race across the plains at breakneck speed (at 50 miles per rider), stop at a weigh station and hand the mail off to another rider waiting, who in turn would race against time to get the mail to its final destination.

During this time or right around that time, the telegraph had been built which created the first wire-to-wire communication (you could almost say the great-grandfather of the computer), which eventually, because of them and the railroad, ended The Pony Express, but the process; the speed of delivery increased. And except for the telegraph, the interesting thing is that the letters delivered were handwritten.

The art of handwriting was then, and now, a taught form of cursive writing that helped people just not to write, but read as well.

Now I have never been one to bitch, moan and groan (a lot, but I do a little), but fast-forwarding to the last thirty-some years; the U.S. Mail Carriers are slower than ever, the mail never gets to you on time or dropped off at the wrong address, and the price of stamps seems to increase every year; or am I the only one this happens to?

When I was in grade school, we use to have stationary with almost one inch ruled-line paper and a number 12 pencil where we learned to print the alphabet in caps and small letters, and eventually learn how to make handwritten words. Anyone remember the size of their grade school stationary?

But getting back to that last thirty years, a new invention became available to the general public; a thing called a computer. It did everything you could ever want except vaccum the house, do the dishes and have babies.

The birth of the computer was the birth of the Super Computer Information Highway, giving everyone an opportunity to find anything and everything they needed or wanted.

Before the computer, there was movies and television to entertain people at home. That isn't the case any longer. With the advent of the compouter to laptop, smart-phones, and I'm sure you can think of a dozen other high-tech gadgets that we never had a name for in the 60s and 70s, that today are household words.

Yep. Be on a train, a plane or even a Greyhound (maybe), break out your Smart-Phone and you can watch a movie, or plug in your ear buds, kick back and listen to music, or use a couple fingers to "text" a friend, or wife or whoever, and bingo, you're happy, your satisfied.

Hell, you don't have to go to the bank to deposit your check or pay a bill any longer. Just take a picture and hit send and it goes where you designate. Personally, I call that being lazy.

Technology. We live it every second of every day. Without it, we would be lost. Anyone remember the kitchen telephone with the 20 foot stretch cord? Ask that question to a teenager today and they have no clue. Do they even know what a phone booth was for? Would they believe you if you said back when you were young, minimum wage was $3.50 an hour, and you thought then you were making damn good money? Just a few examples.

In today's studies, practically 75% of homework is done on the computer. Again, without it, what would kids do today?

Where is this going you may be asking? Simple. This generation of students just starting school, to the next two after them will begin to lose the ability of cursive writing. Writing is an art form, a necessity of life.

Writing is as old as the planet. But writing is a dying art. And somehow, I tie the death of this planet to the death of writing.

Let's face it, a text message goes to where you want in 5.4 seconds. An email on your laptop or computer, 7.4 seconds. Who wants to put a 53 cent stamp on an envelope knowing it will take three days before it gets to where it needs to be?

And today, a large majority of kids practically live on social media sites or gaming sites for that "insta-chat" and when you tie that into a cam, you have live conversation and don't even need to write a thing.

Kids need to get back to cursive writing. I am 70 years old and still hand write everything I do before I type it out to send to whoever; generally publishers. I still hand write letters and mail them to a few close friends or family.

Writing is not a gift, it is a taught art so we can become smarter, wiser, and yes, daring in our exploits of life. Writing is expression when all else fails.

What brought all this about was a cartoon caption I saw earlier today. A teenager was at his computer and a friend was standing over his shoulder and he said, "I'm supposed to write an essay on what is meant by 'The pen is mightier than the sword'. First, I need to use Google and find out what a pen is."

I know what you may be thinking; he wrote all this just to get to here?

Sometimes I rant like I said earlier, and it takes me time to arrive at the destination of my choosing. But want to know something else? Somewhere in all this, you might be thinking about things that disturb you as well that needs a good rant.

This one is mine.