If

“You haven’t cared in over three years….”

The words are spoken at a dining table, bereft of food, as my fingers find play in tiny, loose strings on one corner of an unemployed placemat.

A whoosh of hot breath forces me back against the rungs of an unforgiving maple chair as I absorb the blow, while a corona of dull pain spreads through my sternum.

As I rise, I’m vaguely aware of the uncertainty of my legs, and use a second or two to will them to stillness before I spit, “That is the most ridiculous thing you have ever said to me.” And, as I turn to walk away, fluttering candlelight accents ten smears on the freshly waxed tabletop.

If only, I could have been a little quieter…

If only, I didn’t have an opinion…

If I could hide my feelings…

If I could be a little less intelligent…

If I could sit, quiet, and smiling; always smiling, but quiet.

If I could nod, and smile, agreeably Madonna-like.

Like the portrait of the Madonna; one-dimensional, always smiling, always lovely, always quiet.

If I could have done that…

But, I couldn’t.

And, because knowing I can’t be what you want doesn’t keep me from wanting it for you, I did the only thing I could do.

And now, even that, is not enough…

Marking Time

I almost did,

And, then I didn’t.

We’ll both be better for it.

Lassoing the Moon

It stormed here today.

Not completely unexpected, mind you. But after several days without a cloud, one becomes hopeful the storm has passed.

For four days and nights, the weather was dry, uneventful, and the clouds separated, more than once, to reveal blue skies and multi-colored sunlight, as I allowed myself to be lulled into a place of anxious comfort.

Before the storms came.

And thunder rolled in the form of a sob that filled my head with sounds no one else could hear.

No one ever, really, lassoes the moon…

Library night

It might be library night…

I never really could keep up with it. Is it the same night, every week, or more a circumstance of convenience?

Yeah, it definitely could be library night…

The thought comforts me as my hand parts my hair 5 times before my head comes to rest in my palm, against the car window.

We probably wouldn’t be talking now, anyway…

I do so miss the talking.

And not even the talking, really, but all the little nuances built into talking;

the anticipation of talking,

that first, long, drawn-out “Heeeyy”, that rides out to meet me on the rush of a deep sigh,

oft-used phrases,

words that feel like you….

“Can I ask you a question?”

The smile that never ends, and the laughter.

Good laughter, long laughter, unadulterated, unexpected, and healing laughter.

I miss the joy in laughter.

For the first time in my life, I would rather talk than write. Writing, is after all, all about me. The places I can go are restricted by the confines of my mind, by my experience, by my hopes, and my dreams.

I miss the voice that gently took me places I had never thought to go, but, even more, I miss the wide-eyed enthusiasm as whole new worlds opened up to you through the doorways in my words.