Can you count?…

The first night, I waited on a grassy knoll in the middle of black water swamp, wearing ivory lace and tears dripping from my chin.

I searched a starry night for the promised land, the cosmic galaxy, the blue moon, the anomaly of a unfulfilled promise, us.

Stuck in a vacuum of negative air, my lungs begged for your oxygen, your sunlight, your daydream into my nightmare.

Still nothing

But, a crumpled little girl on her knees picking up pieces of herself that she assumed were impossible to break.

He handed them to her, piece by piece, saying: I you fool, you foolish, foolish, little fool.

So she was, she claimed it with the stitches, the patchwork quilt of her wounded, half-dark heart. Pressing her fingers to the aortic, whispering: tell me again, “how many more days?”


Adventurous me…

I chuckled at her statement

“You have so many adventures” she says, it’s a vicarious life for her and for me

Can we trade places? I think, Maybe just a day or two, I swear

No more than three or four

I’ll plan on being at your bedroom door

Take your place amongst the sheets and pretend for once I’m not just me

My only adventure would simply be living “my dreams” cozied up on the oversized couch

Watching stars shoot across a Northern sky and listening to the sounds of my lover’s lullaby

Those moans, that ache, and sweetest of sounds filling up my mind’s coffers to appease me until the next go round…

In the void…

Here it is again, the silent days, they slay me. The empty void of days between, the constant you and the never will be, forever plaguing me.

Like the palpable tension of forbidden dreams or fantasies. Fulfilling unspoken promises of wine laden nights and promiscuity.

It’s understood in the unspoken messages between us two, there’s no intention to pretend, no–not with you.

patiently, biding time until the days when you are mine–under starry filled skies, sun flower fields, fast-moving-fresh-water rivers, free-falling water falls.

When the dreams of your limbs laced with mine are no longer the only place we can meet and there’s no desire left to flee in these drifter’s feet; then there will no longer be the days, the space in between.

Don’t Mind…Me…

It’s that time, she calls it the witching hour, and I’m lying under artificial lights and it burns my eyes.

I try to write with them closed, but this isn’t 1922 and I cant feel the keys. It doesn’t matter what my mind knows, that the keyboard is the same, my senses say then close one eye and keep on going, girl.

Suddenly, both eyes fly open because my brain just used my mother-in-law’s voice to reprimand me?

I must be feeling fear, because fear is the absence of love, she says! And God knows I’ve never felt it there.

I’m claustrophobic, in my own bed, it’s hard to breathe. My chest rattles like old bones and I resist the urge to cough anything up. Instead, I’d rather sink back into my uncomfortable dreams.

Like the one that woke me up, where a man is asking me questions and I see his lips moving, but I can’t hear a word he’s saying–tone deaf.

But, I swore it was a baby crying.

Kiss me Goodbye…

And if we met, on a dark and rainy day, the skies full of thunder and static and lightning, the air full of mystery and tension and lust, would you kiss my goodbye this time? Or let me and my memory return to rust?

If I am the tin man, and looking for a heart, would you help me find it this time? Or walk away with the lion and find some other place to start?

If you are the Wizard and have all the power too, did you brew up the storm between me and you? Or are you the Wicked Witch of the West? Sending out your monkey business to mess with my head?

Perhaps you are Glenda? All covered in pink, those smiles, that laugh…it’s all very tongue and cheekbones–your face it hasn’t changed, still calls to my thighs, glistening like my eyes at the memory of a twister, three stories too high!

But, now I’m just the scarecrow, left playing in the hay, with a set of matches you give me from day to day. Yet, as I sit and contemplate, I keep coming back to say, would you kiss me goodbye this time? Or just walk away?

Give in to me…

I want you, every inch, of your skin

Touching mine, in places we’ve talked about

And never seen.

I want your hand on mine, guiding it to perfect ecstasy.

I want your lips on mine, until we can not breathe.

I want your eyes on mine, never to leave.

I want days that do not end, and nights to suspend above the perfect pair of star-crossed lovers.

I want you, under my covers.

Sleeping Dog…

I dont guess that I’ll ever really understand how you could call yourself something that you never been.

You don’t get to wear the title, if you never win. There’s no trophy for a might-have-been, or a used to, or a faux pas. What’s done is done and you can never take it back.

Sure, you can try to pretend it never did, but we both know it was. And damned my soul if there weren’t witnesses, my dear.

Oh! That’s what it is! I’m shocked that I didn’t see before; you are afraid, afraid to be labeled a lesbian whore.

Do you think about my hot-pink, little, tongue when he goes down on you at night? Does it drip down your inner thigh? Did you convince him you simply don’t remember?

Or that you didn’t say you couldn’t tell the difference between his and my touches! Is he intimidated? Scared–feeling inferior, maybe needs some kind of reassurance?

Did he insist you wipe me from your repertoire! Throw up road blocks, build up walls, burn down old-wooden-patched bridges with blow torch?

Did you think I would see a smoke signal? A hidden SOS. Somewhere deep inside we both know now that’s not for the best.

Close your eyes and look away, bow your sorry head and beg to pray–erase all memory of the two, there is no me and certainly never again, you.

One and done…

So what are you afraid of? That I can’t get enough? That it’s not your face I’ll see in moments between you and me? That the permissions you gave will haunt your dreams? Should we have kept it all hush, hush? Bury the fantasies. Or, did I give you ammunition for your assaults on my reverie.

Forget what you know or think you knew about me. And all about her! Forget her, forget the promised scenes, spit out the taste of the way her names rolls from my lips in secret ecstasy. Her scent on my tongue in your morning kisses. 

The touch of her skin seared in the locked memory of dead days gone by. The smile in my eyes, the laughter in the wind, the moan in my pillow, the twist in my sheets.

Somethings you can’t take back! You can’t pull the leash on what you realeased and you can’t cry or beg or pray or plead. What’s done in haste fulfills the need. 

Lucky number six…

I’m sure I could have fucked her in the parking lot, but for once I showed some restraint. You know how people always say, “It’ll happen when you least expect it!” Well, I’ve never truly believed that, until last night.

Because I wasn’t aware of the change of chemistry in the air around me and lucky number six. I only felt the thrill of changing winds when she whispered, “I have wanted to kiss you for a week, now”. That’s the moment I knew; the Earth had tilted on its axis and shifted in my favor.

The first time I saw her, she was sitting alone at the bar. Normally I’d only size her up to see which of us had the upper hand in the room. To my surprise she didn’t even glance my way. I was a nonissue to her. Confidence oozed from her pores–an unfamiliar quality in my encounters.

She was a force in the room, a six-foot tall, dishwater blonde, covered in exotic water colored tattoos. My complete opposite and not exactly what I’d call “my type”. I was for once without the power of being the prowess. I was the prey.

Her flirtations were subtle at best. We shared a few drinks and laughs that first weekend. I inquired about her tattoos, made jokes and carried on in my usual fashion. The fact that her mind was on my lips never truly occurred to me.

As I took a seat next to her on the patio the next weekend, it was simply because I enjoyed her playfulness. As the night wore on, those subtle flirtations grew in intensity. “I love your outfit”, “your hair”, … to “you’re fucking hot”.

I chuckled at her, chuckled… I’ve never heard those words in that context. Maybe I was giddy or more nervous. I blew her off, waved a hand of dismissal and laughed some more.

The night progressed and led into an evening of small touches, lingering glances, an undercurrent of erotic advances that led us to a back alley behind the bar. Standing face to face looking at the moment— I moaned into the crook of her neck—fire in her eyes said the words before she did, “I want to kiss you”. And I’ve never been one to deny someone of their hard fought wishes.

There are few words that can accurately describe the feeling of another woman’s lips touching your own and so for the sake of saving inaccuracies I’ll describe how the night sky that that was filled with inky blackness burst into a bazillion shooting stars, a full moon, a lunar eclipse and every single night sky anomaly— all of them combined in that one unforgettable kiss from a woman who wanted it.

Quiet Contrary…

I’ll tell you how hard the soil is. When I pour onto it, nothing sinks in. It sits on the surface and spreads away from me but never reaches you. 

Some days, I use a pick axe and tap it, just to see if it will give. Other days a sledgehammer. In quiet moments, I believe I can hear the trickle of long ago buried spring, sitting just below the surface. In mayhem, it is drowned out by incessant cries of the here and now. 

I used to plant wildflowers, yellow ones. Large, undulating sunflowers, poisonous poppy, fields of bluebell. I watched them turn their faces towards the sun, drink it in and bask in its glory. Why I falied to notice them wilt, I am never sure and can not say. 

Even the souls of my feet refused to sink into the cracks so clearly visible to the naked eye. Hardened by the drought, scraping along the edges of a field not tended. A seed of hope can no longer grow, choked out by time’s harsh truth.