Tag Archives: personal

Busbench

“The boy on the bench,” he says softly.
“You never told me about him.”

His voice says everything he refuses to.
Tension coils in the static.
He waits, feigning patience, as I let implications take the weight of any words I could expel.

“He wanted to be there,” I say, shrugging.
“You didn’t.”

“The nights she locks the door– you better get it open.”

The tempest rages, battering the battlements of good judgment, bombarding built-up balustrades of consciousness.

It smacks stones of sense, degrading details and destroying any moniker of self-mothering.

Naked to it’s lustful and dominating advance, it blazes, emulsifying any educated reciprocity between mind and body.

Keep still until it passes.

Don’t split the skin. Don’t drain the wound.

You should know by now, that monster is a part of you.

“Fall down, never get back up again”

There was a night,
The night of a storm,
When weary road-trip eyes met in a library parking lot,
Leaving lips and arms and legs to follow,
Leaving hands and hearts to follow, unwittingly,
In the dark embrace of night.

You led me to the water,
Flattening blades of grass behind us
As we pursued the otherness,
The separation of unity that was our bodies,
Solitary,
In the whirling eye of a storm.

You whispered in my ear,
The only audible secretion amidst
the deafening pound of waves on the shore
And howling turmoil of the whipping winds,

Saying,
“I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Karly Marie.”

Soft lips embraced neck’s nape,
Meandered to mandible
And met their match slightly parted,
Tongues tangling briefly in a too-quick tango,
Precluding the fire-bellied lust burning between us.

The wind whipped on,
And we stood solitary,
Defiant,
Teetering on our own outbreak of tempestuous howls.

Yet, we pressed together, flush,
Melded.
My hair encased us,
Tendrils whipping ‘round our clutching figures
in a cacophonous cocoon.

Silence echoed.

The waves crashed on.

I don’t know how long we stood there,
But, mark it, we still stand today.

Can you define love?

In a conversation with my partner, I asked him what he thought of love, saying:

“Does love happen when you realize your partner isn’t magical or mysterious but they’re just another person who burps and farts and has anxieties and makes dumb decisions, but you still want to feel the things you feel whenever you’re around them whether they’re really magical or not.”

And he responded with the following:

“I would agree with you, I feel that it is finding someone who is willing to accept you for your mistakes and your accomplishments alike, and you, the same for them. Not out of a sense of obligation or to be nice or kind, but out of the simple fact that your life would be meaningless without them. ” 

San Diego 2013
San Diego 2013

Do you agree? How do you see love?

Let me know in the comments below or shoot me an email at writewelldaily@gmail.com

Write on!

Morning musings

I love to wear your clothes
and let us blend between the folds.

Sweat sweet on sleeves,
Sun seeps,
twisted threads weep.
A lazy haze abounds, freed.

Your skin flush with mine.
Cheeks pinked like wine
Left blushing, hot,
Soft hands on thighs.

Yours/mine/ours;
Borders swaddled in time.

I love to wear your clothes.

Where fabric ends,
Minds intertwine.

 

Spilled milk

“Sit up.” Mom says.

She gets up and stands behind Sissy’s chair. Sissy’s hair is always in her food. Mom uses her fingers and combs it back into a ponytail. She sits back down.

Photo credit: Creative Commons
Photo credit: Creative Commons

“John, at work, got the first deer of the season.” Dad says. He shovels more potatoes into his mouth and Mom nods.

“That’s good. He didn’t get anything last year—right?” she says.

I look down at Sissy’s hand and slide mine towards hers. She starts eating the chicken, and I pull one of her fingers.

She smiles.

“Yeah,” Dad says, “at least this year they can fill their freezer.”

She reaches over and flicks my thumb.

“Mhmm, I can’t believe how bad things were—“

I squeeze her pinky finger and she starts giggling.

Mom looks over at us.

Photo credit: Creative Commons
Photo credit: Creative Commons

“Shhhh! Eat your dinner. Dad and I are talking.”

We look down, still trying not to laugh. Sissy sticks her fork in another piece of chicken.

“Anyway, it looks like things are getting better for them.”

“Yeah, yeah. Seems like it is.”

Mom and Dad keep talking. I slide my foot next to Sissy’s chair leg.

Continue reading Spilled milk