A woman is seated at a table with a man and a child. She feels out of place. She feels like she would rather be anywhere other than where she is, playing a role she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know how she fits into any of it.

The man is charming, the child well-mannered. They make her uncomfortable. She is wary. She waits for her role to become clear. They will tell her who she is, soon. She hopes, as well, to find out who they are, and what the three of them are to each other. Because she doesn’t remember.

The child is darker than the man, whose skin color matches hers. The child’s hair has the appearance of a soft black cloud. She is mildly put off by it, although she isn’t sure why.

The child has something to give you, says the man.

The woman turns to the child, expectant, and receives the rolled up piece of paper held out to her. She smooths it open on the table and stares at it, unsure.

It’s a plane, the man offers when she’s been quiet for too long.

Thank you, she says to the child, and manages a smile that makes her skin feel like tissue paper, soft and crinkly and likely to tear if stretched too much. She doesn’t say that she doesn’t like planes. She’s sure they should know this. She expands her smile to give it authenticity.

The child’s smile is shy, the man’s indulgent.

The woman feels hot, suddenly. Hot like she’s outdoors on a blistering day. Hot like she’s burning from the inside out. And yet, not a bead of sweat dots her skin. She looks at the man and the child. Their skin is dry, and they seem fine.

Isn’t it a little hot in here? She wonders out loud.

No, no. The sun doesn’t shine in here, the man says, smiling at her as though she has told a joke that only the two of them know the punchline to.

Her skin tightens. She can’t see it but she can feel it, and it feels like stretching, except in reverse.

My skin is shrinking, she whispers, more to herself than anyone else.

If the man and the child heard her, they make no indication of it. She stares at her hand, the one holding the fork she’d forgotten about. She stares at the fork as though seeing it for the first time, before remembering that she’d meant to use it to eat the meal in front of her, which she had also forgotten about.

Your food will get cold, says the man, his voice gently chiding.

She looks from him to the child. Is this alright then? she asks, not talking about the food.

The food is wonderful. But you seem anxious. Are you alright?

I’m fine, she snaps. Instantly contrite, she softens. I’m feeling a little tired.

He nods in understanding. It’s to be expected.

She wants to ask him what he means but she is distracted by the child tugging on her sleeve. She cuts up the food on the child’s offered plate into small cubes and hands it back. There you go.

She watches the child eat. As she does so, a thought occurs to her. Am I your mother? she asks, picking up her fork without thinking and stabbing at her meal.

The child’s head turns left then right in the manner signifying the negative, with cheeks stuffed with food.

The man laughs. No, he says, you’re mine. He takes her hand, the one not holding the fork, in both of his, and it is then she notices, for the first time, that her skin is soft and papery. That she is clearly old. This fills her with sadness.

Are you alright? The man’s frown is concerned, his tone sincere.

I’ve become old, she says mournfully.

Yes, the man agrees sadly.

The woman nods, resigning herself to her current state. She addresses the child again: Where is your mother?

Wordlessly, the child reaches over and taps a finger on the drawing of the airplane by the woman’s hand. She thinks, When did that get there?

On the plane? she asks the child. Is she on her way?

She’s dead, says the child, speaking for the first time.

I’m sorry, says the woman, her skin tightening.

It was a long time ago, says the man. He brightens. Perhaps you’ll see each other soon.

Where?

I’m not sure. But any minute now.

The woman is despairing. I don’t understand anything.

That’s alright. I suppose I ought to tell you now, since there’s not much time left. The man’s gaze is soft and full of gentleness. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?

She doesn’t know what she’s going to ask until she asks it. Is the child yours?

Yes. My child, and your grandchild.

So dark. Nothing like you or me.

The man’s smile never falters. No, nothing like either of us, not in that way. But very much a part of us. We are, after all, family.

If you say so.

Is that all you want to ask me?

You’ll tell me everything I need to know anyway.

The man leans close, gently prying the fork from her other hand and clasping it, so that he’s holding both her hands.

Everything you need to know, he repeats. Will you listen? Once and for all?

She nods.

In that case, here it is: You were wrong about a lot of things. And I forgive you.

The woman waits for him to say something more, but that appears to be all.

Is that it?

Yes. It’s everything you need to know. You can let go now.

He grips her hands firmly when she starts to pull them away. No, not like that. You know.

She doesn’t fully understand yet, but she’s begun to realize that she’s losing something precious. Her skin feels impossibly tight, but when she glances at it, it appears fine. She’s worried she’s disappearing, that she’ll fold in on herself until she’s nothings. That she’ll fold out of existence.

I’m burning up, she whispers, inside.

It’s okay.

But it’s over, isn’t it?

The man, her son, nods sadly.

She glances down at their entwined hands, then at her grandchild, so silent. Her family. The first tear drops onto the back of her hand, followed closely by another.

Her son folds her in an embrace, which she returns. It’s going to be alright, he soothes. It’s going to be okay. When he pulls back his face is wet with tears.

He turns to the child. Say goodbye to your grandmother.

Goodbye, grandma, says the child.

Give her a kiss.

The woman presents her cheek to her grandchild, who gives it a soft peck. Thank you, she says to the child. Then, because it feels like the right thing to do, she says, I’m sorry.

It’s alright. I love you, says her son.

At this, her skin loosens, and she is no longer hot inside. Whatever needed to be done is done. It is then she notices the only doorway in the room, leading to a corridor. Her way out. She stands up slowly, uncertainly, trying to see what lies at the end of the corridor. She can’t.

Panicking slightly, she asks her son: Where am I going?

Hopefully somewhere good.

The woman squares her shoulders and nods. Alright then. Goodbye, she says to her family.

Goodbye, reply her son and grandchild.

She walks through the doorway and down the corridor, which has no doors lining it, and whose end doesn’t seem any closer or farther than when she went into it, even after walking for quite a while. The only way she knows she’s making progress is that each time she turns to look back at her son and grandchild, they appear smaller.

At last she reaches the end, where there’s an open door. She pauses with her hand on the handle and takes one last look at her son and grandchild, both of whom are now no more than specks in the distance. Then, bracing herself, she turns back to the door, pushes the handle, and steps beyond it into eternity.

breathing the turquoise like lavender,

and sipping the blue summer.

bitter cold clouds glide and morph lava lather,

floating whispers cut by sweet pineapple sunshine.

soon, a moment, now

rhythms ripple the sky like skipping stones

we jump the music like puddles

splashing in the frequencies.

cobalt bass rumbles the earth hungry,

pumps the air with springing spirals

pushing and pulling the senses,

reverberating through cells.

heavy mud humming, stomping

echoes through our atoms dizzy;

balancing tuned body to innate electricity

the fizz of circulating lemonade energy.

we jump the music like puddles

splashing in the frequencies.

strawberry melodies spilling ribbons,

dolphin leaps of the spaces inbetween beats,

lines of colours overlapping,

colliding, mixing, merging, blending

in with the forest.

washing over souls the life fire sparkles

like a clear water cleansing harmonies,

sound waves crashing against inertia.

phosphorescent glow of re-charged love

for the world, for being, animation

flowing through burnt smoky ashes

of sapphire charcoal skies;

dimmed radiation of chlorophyll emerald days.

the smell of salt, dry bark, fluffy carbon mists,

trembling lights softening the eyes'

grip on outlines, loosening lies.

watching the cycles of patterns

tumbling colours through a mill rotating,

and the silence of listening

when the music comes to an end.

they broke the mold when you arrived,

a breath in the universe, yet

unlike the stars or the void,

unlike anything that ever was.

you, a silhouette dancing on the canvas of existence,

a burst of wildflowers in a barren field,

a melody sung only once in the chorus of time.

you are not the echo or the

shadow or the sameness,

that the world so often regurgitates.

you are unprecedented,

the unfathomable,

the singular.

and in your wake,

the mold lies shattered,

a testament to your unique song,

an ode to the rhythm of your existence,

a tribute to you, who is like no other.

I come from a long line of rugged frontiersmen. Men who did whatever they had to in order to survive. Tough. Independent. Resilient.

For five generations, the unforgiving landscape of the Nevada desert has shaped our lives. The Wild West has been a major character in all of our stories, and no matter how hard we try to leave, each of us is called back to dance with the desert again. For me, that call came the summer after I turned eleven. I never could have predicted how my time in Nevada would shape the rest of my life, but I’m glad I got to spend a decade breathing in its untamed air.

There are few places that will foster a spirit of adventure like the absolute desolation of the high desert. Wide valleys bordered by rugged mountain ranges and covered by clear blue skies; and, once in a blue moon, a blanket of black clouds echoing with thunder.

Long, straight highways that cut their way through sagebrush-covered valleys and connect small town, to smaller town. No one around but you, God and the devil. That’s when you really get to know yourself.

There are no distractions out there. No one to compare yourself to. It’s in the desolation that you learn exactly who you are and what you’re made of. The desert will weigh and measure you, and if you can’t cut it, you’ll know. There is no hiding.

The first thing Madison does when she inexplicably stirs awake at 2 in the morning, is scream.

Because in blinking away the hazy surroundings of her bedroom, and rolling from her supine position to her back with the heels of her hands rubbing away the darkness, she's met with the moonlit shadow of none other then her high school ex.

What comes out next is a string of incomprehensible garbled curses, all strung together to the back of a freight train that cannot leave her throat fast enough.

The ex in question looks up at her, the holes where her eyes are meant to be widening just so and then her head tilts back— the skin of her neck that seems paler than it used to glinting in the bay view window, a low groan tumbling from her lips.

"Oh you've done it now."

Within a split second, Madison is tugging her blankets to her chest like a frightened child and letting out another half-scream, half-swear, more embarrassing whelp when her older brother and father both burst in- the first with a baseball bat at the ready, and the second tightening the knot to the robe bulging around his stomach that he refuses to replace for a properly fitting one, poking himself with the leg of his glasses before fastening them on.

"What? What's going on?" Her brother says, on edge and hair a spiky mess of unwashed gel.

She points, and the two men follow the tremble of her hand to the bay view, where the ex stands, unamused.

"She's right there! Don't you see her?!"

Her bother stares at the space, stepping forward, crouching to swing his gaze beneath the bed, and threw his eyes to the closet, before settling back on the brunette. "Who are you talking about? Where?"

Her father pats his salt and pepper covered head, and with kind eyes peers around his wild blinks to banish the sleep. "What are you taking about, sweetheart?"

"Emmy! She's-- she's right there!" It's half question half accusation that borders on whining and the woman looks up from where she's admiring a photo of Madison, younger by a handful posed by a childhood dog. Emmy smiles.

Jason looks every shade confused, every line in his face flooding with that shameless pity she knows all too well, reaching without any certain weight shifting his stance forward with the back of his hand to his sisters forehead like she's the deadliest thing in the room, bat limp by his side.

"Are you feeling okay?"

Madison swats at him, and he backs off with hands raised in surrender. Madison thinks she's close to the brink of insanity--

"Tell them it's a nightmare." Emmy says, smooth and soothing into the discomfort buzzing around.

"Uh..." Her gaze darts to her father and brother, both expectant and bordering something that forewarned of institutionalization. Inexplicably, she abides."Bad dream. Sorry."

Emmy is now running her fingertips along the knifes edge of the wall, painted a deep purple with a sort of tenderness that... it would be both right and wrong to call it displaced. Given the fact Emmy wasn't meant to be here at all, let alone having some kind of trip down memory lane..

Emmy smiles approvingly when she looks up from the photo in her other hand. "Good job. Its nice to know my words carry years after I've said them."

Madison clenches her jaw. This was a dream. No, no this was a nightmare, like her subconscious brought a demonic abomination to animation. She had read about dream theory- they almost always made you dream of something completely different than the meaning itself. This Emmy looked nothing like the real one, so this was fine— this was—

Emmy groans again, heavier as she swings herself down onto the windowsill's bench, face in her hands but her words escape her fingers. "Who's this guy?"

Madison doesn't get a chance to process the confusion, between her brother and dad acting like two NPC's called off in-action stalling awkwardly by the doorway, and the neck break speed in which Jason nearly goes face first into dream-nightmare Emmy when the next man, this one with gaming controller in hand bursts in, dropping onto the bed beside her with eyes full of such honour that she wanted to humourlessly call him off like a solider.

"You alright babe?"

His hands are soft against her cheeks-- meaty and heavy and calloused from lacrosse. It does little to soothe the Great War six feet away.

"Yeah I'm alright, Jack. Just a bad dream."

Jack frowns, his eyes flickering over every inch of her like she was about to crumble into dust that he would likely encapsulate in a gem around his neck for all of eternity-- which was more disturbing then comforting at the moment. "Do you need me to stay with you?" But then she senses the real discomfort—it's not him. He's perfectly good. True, and loving. Real, in his gentle strokes of her hair. So, the real issue was the... thing across from her.

She flashes a half smile at him in response. "No it's okay, love you."

Jack smiles back, warm and an offer of salvation in the strangeness of the hour. "If you're sure." He stands at her nod, pressing a final kiss to the crown of her head and followed behind Jason. Her dad had slipped away as soon as no threat was perceived. "Love you too."

"God that's so gross. Bye pretty boy!" Emmy waved at him, a smile thats all barbed wire and dark bruises.

Madison wanted nothing more than to move heaven and earth just to crush the vision before her. "Don't look at him." And it comes out in a snap, heat licking behind her teeth.

Emmy's face turns to her, slowly, unreadable in the dim light of the moon and the diffused glow of the city. She's much more frightening like this. Guarded instead of swinging. "Why? Scared I'm gonna hurt him?"

Madison scoffs, "You're not real. You can't climb from my memory to do any damage in my world." She says sliding back against her pillows but never enough to draw her eyes from the thing across from her.

Emmy tilts her head, eyes inconceivable like she's pulled shudders over them. "Aren't I real? Im here. I can touch things. I can speak to you." She slams the photo down for emphasis, and Madison prides herself in the way she only slightly jolts.

Madison's eyes narrowed. "You're not a ghost."

"Maybe not. But I haunt you."

"Of course you do. In every thing I do." And she wants to take it back, the words sucker punched out of her from the glow of dark eyes that screamed spineless, weak, soft. Flashes of those same words spat between the cover of green lockers and text messages blurred in the front of her mind.

"You blame me for things I didn't do." Come's the timbering reply.

"I blame you for every unjustified punishment you flayed me with. Your words, and your actions. They ruined me."

Emmy laughs, and it used to be such a pretty thing; tinkering and soft. It used to fill her with a warmth that carried through her veins until it melded into maple. But in the dark of night, hazed by sleep and anxiety that suffocates, it's haunting. It feels like loosing her, all over again. A darkness that can't be unbidden by any amount of sterile lighting or pleads. To—

"If you want to think that, you can. But it's a weak defence."

Madison grinds her teeth, refusing to rise to the bait.

"It's weak, to blame everything on someone else. What is it my therapist always said?- Redemption is not about pain, Emmy. It's about the good we do, not the price we pay. So why do you still think that your suffering is something special? Like you're a hero for not stabbing me for being mean? That because of who I was to you--sixteen years old, that that's excuse enough to be a shit person?"

"I was sixteen too."

"Oh, so that means you're unique."

Madison, belatedly realizes this is ridiculous. She's arguing with her pysche-- sleepwalking, or sleep paralysis, likely, so she flips onto her side and juts her foot out to cool her body temperature with the familiar sooth of the untouched side of the mattress.

There's no more talking, but she knows Emmy is there. Watching. She doesnt sleep. But she wont give the past the benefit of attention, either.

—————

An hour later, Madison is sitting at the table with a grimace on her face as she. stares at the bottle in hand. The liquor tastes... it says pineapple mojito on the wrapper. But what pineapple has such a noxious yellow colour, nearly glowing in the low light of the kitchen. It was cool in her mouth, like the thickness of mango juice, and went down with the taste of soap that settled into coconut and blossomed into... boot polish?

She doesn't flinch this time, when a familiar blonde appears sitting atop her kitchen table, elbow on an upright knee.

"You can't drink me away, you know." She grins, mouth bloodied like the one of the character's in Jack's Resident Evil game. "I've tried."

Madison slams the bottle down with more force than necessary, moving with leaded limbs to rub at her eyelids with the pads of her fingers.

"Why are you here? Do I need antipsychotics?" There's a low chuckle from closer, the fridge maybe. Then there's rifling-- notably the yoghurt containers getting caught on the cardboard in the procured haste to free the snack. "Do ghosts even eat?" She asks when the silence gets to be too much. Maybe this is her own personal brand of hell, dying and awakening to the eternity of high school subjected abuse. And now, it was just a quiet evil that followed her around and ate up her money.

"Wow, what a surprise. You're rude toward a minority."

A hairpin trigger, pulled, Madison looks up blearily at the figure illuminated by the fridge light. Emmy looks so at ease-- older, no longer fumbling with a body of an unsure and hyperactive teenager, but confident, poised in her movements. She isn't so horrifying now that she herself is less afraid. Her eyes were still dark-- did she dye her hair, or was it always such a bronze tinted blonde? It suited her weirdly perfect. Complimented the stained blood around her mouth, too.

Madison looks down to her bottle, wondering if it's food colouring or another poison that causes that bright yellow lurking below. "Why are you here?"

"You called. I come."

Madison doesn't know what that means, but Emmy's voice offers no invitation to question it freely. She focuses on making small circles with the tip of her index finger on the table instead. Waits. She's used to waiting, for Emmy to make the move. To hold her hand when everyone that mattered wasn't looking. To offer placating words in repose of verbal abuse. And its--

She was mean. But she also... she was also someone that stood in the fridge light, deciding whether or not yoghurt would disgust her or not the second she opened it and then decided on a string cheese instead. She was someone that fawned over photos of herself, younger. She was gentle, even with the gore She wasn't all bad.

"So," Emmy dragged her from her reverie, dropping the spoon down beside the unopened container of yoghurt, seemingly still deciding as she eyed the duo with hands on her hips. "What's wrong with you? Insurance too expensive, nails too brittle, mom too bitchy?"

"She died."

"Oh. Huh." Emmy blinks at the spoon. Decides to forgo it, as she tears open the yoghurt and begins slurping. "Sorry."

She's not-- they never got along. But thats fine. Madison and her mother never did much, either.

"S'okay. Not gonna send you to hell for poor tasting jokes or you'd be there already."

Eyes, twinkling like the most dangerous parts of the sea catch hers, "Aren't I now?"

Madison catches some of the sugary poison from the cupids bow of her lips, shrugging, "Lying is a sin. Again, can't send you to hell."

The other woman hums putting the unused spoon back into its rightful drawer, shooting over her shoulder, "Who knew you had such taste for ghost jokes. I'm stealing them."

"Another sin. Two for two, do I get the third for free?"

Emmy's lips flicker just barely, before they smooth into that all natural sneer. "You have wanted me dead for a very, very long time. Everyone knows that. So why do you still think of me?"

Madison shrugs, digging into the comfort of the bar stool with her nails. The circling index digs into the lacquer. "I don't know."

"You do. You just don't want to remember."

"I haven't been able to forget." She snips, her finger permanently etching a line in the table.

Emmy's laugh is dark. Twisting metal and rolling pennies on the back of the tongue. "You ever wonder why I was the way I was?'

"It was easier to not symphatize with the devil."

"Maybe." She sighs, quiet for a moment. "But I wasn't born mean. I didn't treat you badly out of malice."

"You didn't have to react to every feeling." Madison can't help but say. Emmy doesn't snap like she used to. She just nods, her face even and drawn.

"No. I didn't have to. But you can't blame a person you no longer know. You can't blame someone who was drowning for lashing out for any kind of reel."

Madison looks down to the tabletop. The air is too thick, her heartbeat too loud in her own ears. She releases a breath of her own, heavy and stilted. "I didn't help. I was rude. Quick to anger, I guess."

Emmy chuckles humourlessly. Madison looks up at the sound, and sees the twinkle in those dark eyes. They're different— softer. Eyes she had fallen for, when she was nothing but nerves and indecision. There's no blood on her lips now, when she gives a fleeting smile.

"It's not your fault."

Madison blinks.

"What?"

Emmy looks younger, now— like beneath the dwindling moonlight and the glow of the fridge, she's aged back to that sweet sixteen. Awkward, unsure, emotional. But her eyes are that same steady strength— unwavering despite Madison's response to flee.

It's written all over her face she's sure. She's never been good at hiding when she wants to leave.

"It's not your fault. What happened."

Madison blinks, her eyes bleary with unshed tears that she can't consciously remember forming. Emmy is a twisting vision— dark as night, quicksilver like a teen, and... her. The soft, flaxen haired one who looked at her with such tenderness.

Emmy circles the table, and Madison can vaguely recall the memories before the war— them two in the kitchen, sharing hoodies and feeding her childhood dog treats. Quiet, glowing smiles in privacy. The hard set jaw of a child under her own inquisition in public.

"My death. It's not your fault."

"I—I could have done more. To stop it."

Emmy shakes her head. A mess of black, bronze and flax. "No. You couldn't. Two children can't save each other from a place adults made unsafe. A child cannot bear the burden of another child's life."

And her voice— there's no edge. It's light, like it used to be beneath cotton sheets in the cool spring before global warming dragged and misfortune hung. Emmy is warm, here. In this kitchen, in her bedroom, in her mind. She isn't leaden with the exterior that Madison remembers—- that she forced her to bear in death in hopes it would be thick enough to assuage her own bleeding. But it wasn't.

Her tears are heavy on her cheeks, burning a trail only those fingertips had taken.

"Why.. why did you have to die?"

Emmy smiles, it's half of one and pained. But it's real. It's normal. It's not fabricated by a preconceived notion, or what she had begged to see in its place. "It gets very tiring to lick your own wounds. Some poeple..." eyes, not dark like the dangerous parts of the sea but wading at the surface that showed nothing but life, dipped to their edges then back. "Some souls aren't ready to be born yet. That's no one's fault. But some souls, some are waiting to be called home."

Her brother, father— oh.

One door. Heavy. Room filled with little trinkets. Cotton sheets. Worry. Familiarity.

Hospital.

Emmy's eyes are rimmed with a quiet plea. "The world needs you alive, too."

Her throat is thick with cotton when she swallows. "But.. you're not there."

"I haven't been for a while."

"So you're not... real?"

Emmy shrugs. "Who's to say? If I can soothe you— I am as real as you are."

Madison frowns. "I didn't.. you were mean, weren't you? Did I make that up?"

"No, you didn't." Emmy reaches out, her touch nothing more than a buzzing memory against her cheek. "I was mean. I was young, and sick. That's no one's fault. But it's okay to move on. It's okay to let me go."

Dark eyes, and light all the same drift to where Madison can make out the sleepy figure of Jack on the visitor's chair, face tucked into the palm of his hand and yawning. His eyes were heavy, trying to focus on the body in the bed but his own body begging for rest.

"It's okay, to love. To grieve and to heal, and to feel affection all the same. You can love me, mourn me, and love him and cherish him, too."

Madison looks back to Emmy, who's slowly stood. Smile strong and gaze fixed, warm.

"Will I see you again?"

Emmy's head tipped to the side, eyes twinkling with mirth. "Oh, yeah. When it's your time, I'm going to bother you forever."

"So there's an afterlife?"

Emmy sighs, exasperated but fond as she bends to press a buzzing kiss to the crown of brown hair, stepping back without breaking gaze. "There is no plain of existence where I wouldn't find you." Then, with that same guileless smile, "to haunt you of course."

Madison glared, soft and tired as she settles back into the bed beneath her. It feels faint, but there. Real.

"I love you, Em."

Emmy smiles, and opens the door. "Live for me; that's love at its purest."

(took a little bit of searching... but let us get spooky, shall we?)

The red is delectable

Savory and sweet

Medium rare

I look at the table

Stare at my feet

Savor each bite

As if it’s my last

I cut off another piece

I chuckle to myself

Everything "tastes like chicken"

So they say

I beg to differ

I think people taste different

this poem is almost a year old and remains my favorite

This is a series of 11 poems that are here defining my love to him:)

1. BLEEDING ICHOR

Cruelty is something that is made for me

Those little strings of hope I believe

Maybe this time, maybe in the hour of need

After hanging too long I only bleed

Bleeding of peace

Bleeding of insanity

Bleeding barefoot in birches and trees

Bleeding of the thought that we were ever meant to be

Scathed in the blood of innocence

That you had ever shed of me

My dead body lying in your breath’s presence

My absence pleasing you indeed

2. Anguished

Your blood curdling energy makes me want to hide

Like that little girl who once did all these years back

Sometimes I feel your energy from right behind

But its mostly from within myself with a sound of crack

I don’t hate or envy you, maybe I do

But it’s because how you made me feel

Your hands etched out like deadly knives

Never remind me of the wailing of a traumatized kid who just wanted to fly

3. SCARED OR SACRED

How do I hold on to those broken pieces of our love

Something that turned so grey and mundane

A tapestry of the golden ages that might never be shared again

How do I hold on to something that might never be love again?

4. LONELY CROWDS

Among the masses two people breathe

Completely ignorant of each other

Of the unsung tapestry underneath

What a lyrical spin off time had weaved this time

Bittersweet age of two butterflies flying in rhyme

Flapping their wings, shining ever so bright

Snap of a finger, the age of downfall after their blissful height

5. THE TAPESTRY WE COULD'VE SHARED

I see you everywhere

In between those history books,

In chemistry we never shared

Those pages can’t be turned to a new chapter I guess

Because I’ll hold on to those memories at my best

6. ILLICIT AFFAIRS

Apart by a million miles

United by a single thought

Me and you surviving forevermore

Like the hope of a lost guide for a ship at the shore

Waves hit high and low

Thoughts running fast but those moments stinging slow

I think my insanity is breached you should know

I’d get killed a million times, just to get killed once more

7. POLAROIDS

Memories are something that are always lost

But it’s your choice whether to mourn or to cherish the cost

Once in a while, you’ll go back in time

Almost reliving those moments and then sit back in spite

You see what a mess it is now

The aftermath of bloodshed it is how

So bloody ruined and hope it might be right again

How so, when their name spells out pain?

8. HAUNTING BABYLON

Your lavender scents haunting my gardens of Babylon

Spring unfolding beneath our feet while your brain was all frost

The coldness and the babarism you displayed deserves fine recognition

How reckless you were when you had wrecked everything I had grown

They say you reap what you sow

But in my case its wrong I suppose

I had grown all my love and care

And all you gave me were bittersweet memories hanging fair

9. LAST KISS

There's not a day I don't miss the touch of your eyes, and your bearing of lies

Engraved forever in my heart is the heat of those moments

This happiness every time whenever the clock strikes straight 9:09

Today in memory I look at our life in pictures with a little shine

Maybe that shine was of the tears that came along 

The miseries that dawned 

And the melody of our favorite song

How could you ever leave me in this wild abyss 

Never thought that you'd be gone without a goodbye kiss

10. ETERNAL VEXATION

I watch you breathe and sleep and reach out my hand

But you were too distanced from me

Inhabiting somewhere seven worlds afar

But still I see your hidden scars

Because no matter how well you hide

I can see vexation beneath your lips hidden behind a  smile

Doesn't matter if we're opposite poles or tied to a rope

I will always see your imperfectness as stars

No matter if I'm a grieving widow or a wounded soldier

Or you're the man behind rifle

don't ever expect me to leave you deserted

Because you will ever remain my evermore Eiffel

Even beneath your flaws and scars

Not even the mighty fate can pull us apart

11. COWARDNESS

In the silence of bustling crowds

I'm haunted

By your essence, its horrid

The scary play, with the playwright and his midwife

Fucking up the scene with their derranged brains

In the blink of an eye

What does one do when his life turns out to be a lie

Never dream of things unless you can't fulfill them

Don't see stars in the sunlight

But who are we to listen and learn

Running like children in the ferns

And the marsh and the grasslands and the lakes

Where people can't even admit what they can take

Of what they love, what are their mistakes

Who on earth would stand up and confess

That it is the field named love they had professed

I might be a little coward if I can't say that I love you

That you aren't on my mind like some rent free brat all the time

Your absence of pheremones doesn't help any better in my confession

How our love suffered extreme brutal complications

Of how much I don't hate you and how I not never think of you

And I'm a coward,

so I'll say this is barely true

You reach out to me,

I reach back

We talk for a while

Maybe take it a bit further

But eventually

We're suddenly strangers

My pen friend from another country came to visit me today. I picked her up from the airport in my battered old convertable, the heater working just enough to keep us safe from frostbite.

“Do you think it will snow?” she asked as soon as she got in the front seat beside me. She had never seen snowfall before so I could understand her enthusiasm.

I personally hate winters. The cold gets to me, I always have a runny nose and my sore throat prohibits ice cream consumption. Further, I detest freezing my fingers off shoveling snow off the driveway and despise the extra work needed to put snow trackers on the car tyres.

But she looked so eager to see the little specks of frozen water, I couldn’t help but allow a small smile to form on my face.

“Maybe.” I said looking at the grey skies. It was a terribly dull evening, dark and cloudy, the road illuminated by yellow headlights and bylanes with half hearted Christmas decorations. My friend was dressed in bright colours, as though trying to compensate for all the grey, with splashes of red and yellow all over her coat and tall boots.

“It’s always warm in my country.” she said between shivers. I realized that her jacket, though lovely to look at, did little to keep her warm. I shrugged off my own and gave it to her.

“Thanks.” she said gratefully putting on the larger garment. I was almost sorry when the brown faux fur covered her bright coat. It was as though, I had subdued her light. I needn’t have worried however, because her energy was back in an instant.

“It’s Christmas tomorrow!” she said happily, taking out her phone to text her Mum.

“And my brother’s birthday.”

“Is his name Jesus?” I asked sardonically.

She laughed, clearly missing the sarcasm. “No, his name is Max. He’s only twelve, and I miss him.” she said as she typed.

The signal turned red and I stopped the car, squirming around in my seat to look at her.

“What will you take back for Max?” I asked noticing her flushed face, and chattering teeth. If only I’d earned a bit more during summer break, I could afford to replace the car’s heating system.

The signal changed to green, and I pressed the accelerator, eager to snatch my eyes away from her discomfort and my guilt.

“Lots of gifts, he loves Hollywood and baseball, so that’s convenient.” she said with a smile as she tried to hide her shivers. The cold was getting to her and I wanted nothing more than to rush her home, hand her hot chocolate and pile all our blankets on her. But it would be midnight by the time we reached, and I hoped she would be okay.

“I really hope it snows.” she said blowing into her hands and rubbing them together. “It’s warmer when it snows.”

Impulsively, I swerved into a Chinese takeway restuarant and ordered the hottest items I could find. I produced some money, the remainder of my student loan, and handed it to the lady at the counter.

“Don’t you think it’s too much?” she asked when the lady handed her a huge bagful of inexpensive warmth.

“No.” I said, feeling better now that she was surrounded by noodles and soup. “Start eating, you must be hungry.”

She peeled open a pack of dumplings and stuffed one in my mouth.

“These are good.” she announced as I struggled to clear my mouth to speak. “Thanks.”

I swallowed and forced myself to look at the road, more so because I found a speck of sauce right beside her lips.

She is your friend.

“Thanks for coming to see me.” I said stiffly after a while.

She stopped eating to stare at me. “Don’t thank me, you’re the one who’s letting me crash at their place during the Christmas holidays.”

“Nah, you’re away from your family, stuck with me in this cold godforsaken place.” I said shaking my head. “I think you got the shorter end of the straw.”

She yawned, stretching out her legs and leaning on the door.

“I got you as my pen friend.” she said looking out of the window. “I got the best.”

My face turned hot as I continued to drive. A blush crept over my cheeks and neck as I tried to keep myself staring at the road. By the time I garnered the courage to look at her again, she was fast asleep.

I drove diligently, pausing only at crossings to sneak a peek at her. She looked like an angel, as she dreamt, surrounded by cooling takeway food and covered in my old jacket. I wondered what she was dreaming about. Was she thinking of home? Her family, her little brother, the Christmas dinner?

The night dragged on and the stars popped out. The sky felt heavy now, as we neared my address.

“Melissa,” I called softly after I shut down the engine. “Melissa, wake up, we’re home.”

She stirred and looked around disoriented. “Is it snowing?” she asked innocently.

I have never wished for snow this much before.

I shook my head at her words and helped her out, stopping short as something soft and white fell like cotton candy and onto my palm.

There was no mistaking it. I stared up at the skies and followed a tiny speck as it dwindled in the air. It danced in the light wind, twirling, and flowing loftily before coming to a soft halt.

The snowflake landed on her nose. All I wanted to do at that point was tell her. Tell her so many things. But it seemed she wanted to do something different.

“You have a snowflake on your brow.” she said, reaching up to wipe something off.

Her cold fingers touched my flushed skin and for a single moment, all I could see and feel was her: her smile, her eyes, her touch and then all too soon it was gone.

She distanced herself and looked up at me as though afraid I would have pushed her away if she hadn’t moved of her own accord.

“You have one on your nose.” I said closing in on the space between us. She bit her lip nervously as I gently lifted the snowflake off her nose and showed it to her.

“If you look under a microscope, you’ll see be able to see a unique pattern.” I said sagely.

She laughed, clear and cymbal like lighting up the night. I glanced at my watch, and sure enough, it was midnight.

“Merry Christmas.” I said simply, frozen not by the cold. “Guess it snowed after all.”

“Guess it did.” she said, still standing far away. “Merry Christmas.”

It’s too soon. It’s not even been twenty-four hours.

And yet…

My heart is already hers.

“Shall we go inside?” she asked shaking me out of my thoughts. Her eyes met mine, and for as long as our gaze held, I could tell her heart was beating in tune with mine.

“Yes.” I said with a smile. “Let’s go.”

I remember the excitement of getting my first pocket knife for cub scouts. The build-up to getting it was worse than waiting for Christmas. My first weapon. Something that would enable me to survive out in the vast untamed wilderness. I would be able to make traps, build forts, cut fishing line, drill holes, open cans and make buddy-burners. I bet I could take on a bear. I would be able to carve figurines with such exquisite detail that Michelangelo himself would turn green with envy.

There were many conversations with our Den Leader and mom and dad about the handling, care, and respect that a weapon of such potential mass destruction and power warranted. Proper use and proper closure of such surgically sharpened steel blades was covered over and over and over.

The day came.

I remember carefully opening the box it came in, sliding out the pristine unsoiled treasure. It had a slight oily sheen on it which smelled like steely adventure. The handle was dark blue and textured for grip. The small brass placard on one side had a wolf on it which stared captivatingly back at me, knowingly, daringly. There was a steel loop that was riveted to the end which would make it handy to clip to my belt for easy access in an emergency. I, my self, was riveted. I finally possessed the most coveted item a cub scout could be blessed with.

I opened all the tools and blade. I marveled at the shine and precision of such magnificent engineering. I was enchanted. My luck felt as sharp as the blade edge.

Having sufficiently admired every inch of my treasure, I closed the awl first, then the can opener, the screwdriver next, then the blade, right across my finger.

It didn’t hurt as it went in, but then the blood came. I let out a wail which I quickly stifled, after all, I couldn’t have my new treasure confiscated. I grabbed a dirty sock from the laundry hamper and wrapped it around my gushing finger and headed to the bathroom. I felt relieved that I had earned my first aid belt slide badge. Everything was under control. Several Band-Aids later, knife in pocket, I was out the door, off into the orchard to take on the world and find adventure.

Now, all I needed was a hatchet.

Nordski