haunted within

the stairs creak
at the same time
every night

the sound of
footsteps
sweep across
dry floorboards

and the whisper
call of mist
comes from beyond
my door
just as i'm about
to nod off

i can feel
the fingers
touching me
in my sleep

and the hairs
at the back
of my neck
stand true
when the
temperature drops
and the air grows
stale

the steam from
the shower
outlines those
who watch me

i'm never alone

a face stares
from around the
kitchen wall
and vanishes
once i change
my gaze

i hear
soft scratches
from under the floor
and i feel nauseous
when the cold hand
touches my shoulder
from beyond

the cabinets
are always open
when i return home
and the lights
never seem to
stay on

but when i weep
the house weeps with me

and at least
i am never alone

the girl that went by Reno

i had my first sexual experience
when i was four

the next few experiences came
between the ages of ten and fifteen

but i lost my virginity when i
was nineteen,
and it was one of the most awkward
moments of my life

the girl was beautiful,
too beautiful for me
( not unlike every woman
i've been with since )
she had legs for days
and a pretty pink smile
made of cotton candy

she was so tall,
i looked up to her by an inch,
but i loved the way she looked down on me

she smelled of strawberries
and had a dark laugh
that made me think of cigarettes

she practiced Black Magic
and i pretended to do the same,
conjuring demons
by candlelight
before we made love
just to have someone there to
enjoy the show

she tasted the way she smelled
and i was suddenly drifting through
every breath she took,
waiting for the exhale
that seemed as if it would never come

our first time
was while we were watching the
Exorcist
and it was also the first time
i had ever went down on a girl

i was a little curious
as to the wonderment
that went on down there
and it was more
than i could have ever hoped for-
the screaming demon child
in the background
did very little to detour me

it was the shortest relationship
i've ever had
we got high and walked through the woods
i took her to see her family
up north
we did naughty things
to each other in a camper by a lake
and conjured a few more demons
to pass the time

by the end
she had taken the majority
of the occult section
of my modest little library,
but left me with 'the knowledge of woman'
which i have taken with me ever since-
so it was a fair trade

i sometimes wonder about that
six foot, one inch girl
and what happened to her

i can only hope she
conjured the right types of demons
to keep the angels at bay
because i'm sure if they ever found her,
they would take her back to where she belongs

sometimes you just have to take it all in and hope it works out for the best

i smoked my first joint
        on the floor
in the bathroom
of my parents place
when i was fifteen

i remember the taste
        wasn't bad,
but the tiles were cold

i waited for the outcome
as i puffed away

i stared at the door
wondering when the drug
would take effect

i listened closely
to make sure my parents
didn't come home early

i thought about
the drunken fight they'd had
the night before
when a drunken
stepfather
stumbled into the bathroom
and dropped
a joint when he was
taking a piss

i had never done drugs
before, but i was damned
determined to try

i took another puff
and wondered why
the shit wasn't doing
anything to me
maybe i wasn't meant
for the effortless high
afforded my parents
after a night of fighting
maybe i was some type
of freak with superpowers
that only afforded weak
sobriety

i took another puff
and rolled the joint around
between my fingers

i blew the smoke up
toward the vent

nothing happened

there wasn't some special
eye opening experience,
no life changing moment
when the world gently
   slip
       slip
           slips away

and it wasn't until recently
as i looked back at my youth,
wandering through
watery memories
that i realized
the first time i smoked pot
i had completely forgotten
to inhale

love with intent

love her more
than you love
       yourself

make her feel you
make her see your face
even after she has closed
her eyes

let your hands explore every curve,
every line,
every soft inch of her skin

show her what it is to make love
give her desire,
give her hot, panting breaths,
give her excitement
and make her yearn

           taste her,
                  savor her,
wrap   yourself   into   the
fabric     of      her      soul
and let her moan for more of you

treat her as if she is
the very last woman you will
ever       be       with

treat her as if she is
the only woman you will
ever know

give yourself completely
to her and let your love
mingle        as        one

women are easy,
their only complication is you

be true
be honest
be the fantasy
they have always
                    desired

it is only then
that you can truly know
          yourself

honest and trustworthy

a successful relationship
begins with trust and honesty,
but neither of those things
can be accomplished
unless you first have trust in yourself,
and are honest with yourself

how can you expect to
relish in honesty and trust
if you haven't yet begun to be
honest and trustworthy to yourself?

once you trust yourself
it becomes easier to look for
what is trustworthy in others

once you are honest with yourself
it is easier to find honesty
in others

all relationships are this way-
solid foundations of friendship and love
are directly related to the level
of trust and honesty
in that relationship

if either is broken,
hope is lost

without hope,
emotions dissipate
and you're only left with yourself

so trust in who you are
and be honest with what you are

then look outside of yourself
for similar qualities
in others

you'll be amazed
at the reflection
you see

trekking through a nightmare

i keep waking up
thinking this is
a bad dream

there really isn't
a never ending war
in the Middle East

my fellow man
wouldn't hurt children
and women
in the name of dysfunction
and disorder

my political representatives
wouldn't allow
corporations to donate
unlimited funds
to campaigns

no one is actually
considering making
an internet based on
anything other than
net neutrality

the wealthy who have
built empires on the backs
of the poor and middle class
would never think about
paying anything less than their
fair share
to support the society they
take advantage of

kids wouldn't steal art
because they are aware that
if artists can't make a living
from the art they make
then there isn't a point
in creating the very
best art they can produce

no one pretends they will ever be rich
because the rich would never allow
too many people into the exclusive
club they have created
just to make sure there is a clean divide
between the haves and the have nots

the society in which i live
wouldn't even begin to believe that just
because there are two political
parties looking out for their
own best interests,
that there isn't another viable
solution in a third or fourth party
that may or may not use
government in the very same
way that the previous parties did,
recirculating the same greed
and deceit

companies wouldn't build products
to break in a certain period of time
in order to sell more of the same product

oil companies wouldn't buy out inventions
because the inventions could potentially
impact future sales while providing
a clean alternative to the product they supply

religious leaders would never use
an idea of god to prosper
individually while withholding profits
from the society which they claim to serve,
thusly building empires
to brainwash the masses into believing
we are all divided into neat little categories
of good and evil without any gray areas
which actually make up the sum of civilization

the FDA wouldn't intentionally withhold
a drug that could cure a specific disease
because the profit margins are too low

doctors wouldn't practice medicine
in order to become rich,
keeping patients on prescriptions
that do more harm than good
while turning a blind eye
to the potential medications the FDA
refuses to admit
just to keep prescription drug companies
from losing profits

i keep waking up
thinking this is all a bad dream,
but it isn't,
we're living the very nightmare
we dreamed up

and sleep is never restful
when there are monsters
hiding in every shadow

take our holy

after all these years
we still believe in
hypocrites
wearing splendid dress
telling us about sin

we gather in their
cathedrals,
in ornate buildings
and listen to
the poison,
willingly letting them
insert the death
in our veins

they simply have to ask
and we send them money
for new suits
and pretty cars

we bleed for their holy tongues
and bathe in their piss
to find higher meaning
in what life is all about

we suffocate our children for them,
taking away youth
and filling innocent heads
with hate and ignorance
based on books
that would be better suited
to wipe our asses

we hand over our souls
and never think twice
when they ask for more

but their smiles
warp so wide
and their teeth gleam
under those big starry lights
and their words comfort
the monsters
that hide in the shadows
in the darkest of nights

we give them everything
and they return with
so little
yet their palms are upturned
to receive more
even when we have nothing left
to give

and when they're uncovered
for their treachery,
there is always another
to take their place,
another to fill
hungry mouths
that are too foolish
to stop eating the shit

and what we're left with
is all that we have,
pointless books
and obsolete prayers
that go unheard
through the insanity
of us all

a holy experience

there are those people
that make your skin crawl
the moment they enter the room

no apologies come from
their tight lips
they simply offer the end
if they were to ever smile

you can't deny them
they keep coming
like a storm

their tongues are
a lightning strike
to everything you ever
believed in

their eyes are
a black hole
swirling,
sucking in everything
they come in contact with

if exposed,
they would eat your soul
and use the flap of skin
you left behind
as a napkin

they drain everything
in their wake

the last time
this happened to me,
i went for the door,
but there was another one
blocking my exit

i turned quickly
and bolted,
but was soon cut off
by a third

where the hell
are they all
coming from?!
i murmured

i snatched a bottle
from the table
and broke it against
the edge

get any closer,
and i'll use it,
i said

but they kept
coming,
mouths cavernous
and foaming

goddamn it!
get away

they surrounded me,
arms outstretched
and clawing

i hit the floor
and bolted
between their legs

there was fury in their
swirling eyes
as i looked back
one more time
to make sure i was
getting away

we will save you,
they said,
feed us and we will save you!

i hit the stairs
running
and before i knew it,
i was on the street

my breath was quick
i was panting,
but i refused to stop
until i knew for sure
that i was free

that's the last time
i ever set foot
in a fucking church again,
i screamed

for those who build the machines of war

arming violent groups
to commit more violence
will not end the violence

it simply helps the war machine
build more machines for war

any group that uses religion
as a tool to conform the masses
to their particular form
of propaganda
is simply trying to control minds
through mythological means
via bullets and bombs
and beheading
while claiming to be holy
and above the centralized conspiracy
known as government

any government that perpetuates
the movement of the gears of war
is only interested in net units sold
at the cost of innocent lives

the value of such things
can only be calculated in dollars
and cents with profit margins
tallied to the richest of the rich

above all else,
fear sells
for peace does not
garnish profits

rather than dropping bombs,
let us bombard them with
books and bread-
feed the body and mind
and let the fallout
be as it may

september in venice

i parked off of 17th street
right where it opens up
to Venice beach

the crowds were huge

a man was trying to stop another man,
but when he wouldn't
pay attention,
the first man asked if it was
because he was black
the second guy said no, it was because
he was trying to sell him something

a skateboarder rushed by,
swerving between my wife
and i
a blur of board shorts
and he was gone
like the waves
taking away a crumpled
water bottle

a strong smell of pot was coming
from one of the dispensaries
stuffed in between run down shops

a guy in green scrubs
with a pot leaf over his chest
beckoned for us to
take advantage
of their thirty dollar evaluation
to get a medical card

i smiled and kept walking

there was a rush of body odor
and weed
mingling with incense
and stale beach

a cop drove through,
but there was nothing to see-
just weird people
doing weird shit
in a weird place

at least they were being honest
about it

there are so many others
trying their best
to hide their oddness

but on Venice beach,
weird is just what it is-
right there,
out in the open
for everyone to see

after we had a couple of hot dogs,
we watched a guy skating down the sidewalk
playing an electric guitar
with the biggest smile on his face
he was painted up brighter than his guitar
and wore a makeshift turban on his head
to keep the dreadlocks in place

my wife said, "he seems so happy."

"it's good to find a place where you fit," i replied.

the art of need

we do too much
harm
to one another

too much death
by foolish hands

too much innocence
spent
on ignorance

if we could live
simply for living
simply for understanding
and compassion,
what lives could be led
in this way
to hide our atrocities
our delusion
our fateful crimes
of the past
to cover up the idiot
ways which we proceeded
so the youth would not see
the full range
of our foolishness

and if we could leave those
things in the past
continuing forward,
always forward
from this moment on
to concentrate on
the right here and now
and never look back

but there is so much
looking back
so much time wasted
on concepts of time

all we need is
nourishment
and love
and shelter
from the
elements

everything else
makes us stagger

bloody smiles

what we could have been
is better
than what we never were

simple dreams sliding down
through time to give space
in this constant fucking
nightmare

a grinding saw
face upturned
screaming
as the blade wrecks
your smile

mouth wide and open
churning bile

let it lift you
through simple sliding dreams
let it guide you
through
simple pleasures

i've carved my smile too

we are grinning
from ear to ear
under the blissful eye
of contrived gods
to ensure our place
on this great floating
wad of dust

and our time is short
because we create holy wars
where we're bound to fight
for convoluted theories
regarding fictional
mythologies
based on our own inability
to look beyond the scope of
reasoning which we were steeped

it would be so much easier
to put away our beliefs
regarding fictional
mythologies,
or at least trade them in
for something substantial,
something we can
pass on to the next
generations
so they can finally put an end
to blowing each other up
for god's love

it is funny to me
that every religion teaches
love in some capacity
yet we are bound to the gun
and the knife
and the never ending war for
greed and
ascension

maybe we should put
childish things aside

maybe we should stop listening
to the lies
and find a little bit of truth
before we destroy
the very ground beneath our feet

beyond us, so little progress

a disturbing evening
of propaganda
where the bud rots in the soil
and the leaves hang dead
from limp branches
and the lies go unnoticed
until you plug your ears
and drown out the very sound
from which they emanate

no one here is breathing
and the damp of the air
smothers the embers

ignorance and innocence
can be one and the same
but sometimes ignorance
never goes away

the most you can hope for
is to live and learn
and grasp concepts previously
beyond your capacity

and if we're lucky,
we will get to die
on a strong foundation
of reason
that best enables the next
generation
to prosper in a way
that is beyond our
current capacity

if you ever happen to trip and fall

they buried him in an unmarked grave,
high on the hill,
away from the portion of the cemetery
where they bury those who
can afford to be named

he is there with all the rest
that couldn't afford to live

they are all nameless now
just as they were in life
when they were stepped over
and outcast and objected to

they no longer have to shit
in dumpster pits behind the grocery store
or drink from brown paper bags
in the dark

the clothes they wore were burned
and the ashes were taken out with the trash

it doesn't matter whether they wanted
their lot in life
it doesn't matter what they did to end up
on the street,
dusting portions of the sidewalk
where they slept
all that matters is that no one stared too long
or asked why
all that matters is that no one cared enough
to learn the reasons

all that matters is not ending up in the same place
if you ever happen to trip and fall

rose lips

the old man on the corner is dead
he lived there for years,
broke, drunk, abused-
eyes like glass,
lips red as roses

he took the sidelong glances
as best he could
he wore the dirt with pride
and never reached out
for the money he was offered

he accepted the coins
that were dropped at his feet,
but never made the motion
with the palm of his hand

under it all,
he knew we all had the opportunity
to be just like him

he knew that the casualties
of greed could fall as easily
as any angel ever could

he died with a sip left in the bottle-
that taste he would leave for whoever
took his place once he was gone

the only advice he ever gave
was not to bother-
it all ends the same way
no matter who you are
or what position you hold,
the dirt will claim you
when the spark drifts away

"so much fuss,"
he said
"so much fuss over nothin',"
he chanted

now that he is gone,
there is an empty corner
down the street

and if you listen closely,
you can still hear him laugh
at the broken angels
falling behind him

Silently Inside

I can taste the arsenic on my lips.

It’s not as bitter as tears.

The screams awaken me from delusion. Hollow tendrils of fear and contempt beckon closer on frail wings sewn together by veins and dignity. I hear them scream at night when no one else is listening; when no one else is close enough to hear. Their hands are cold and rigid, coursing over my memories. Blank faces howl back and I am nothing anymore. I try to stand, to shake them off, but they clasp firm on my anguish. They know just where to prod.

Listen and you could hear them too. They live just inside of you, under your skin in the subtle, soft spots where you wouldn’t think they could breathe. Their voices, their fucking voices are screams. Their hands are the needles that puncture. Their souls are burning hatred.

We all live in this. Coldness seeps in when you’re not looking. When it goes away, where will you be? Hands shake through the piss for warmth: converging on your ideas of blasphemy. I’m still inside. I can see you now. It’s exactly what it is that they want you to believe it to be. There is no idea of today. There is only tomorrow.

Taste

This is every day; the taste of sour on my tongue when I awake, the bitter disappointment, and her face in the shadows of some subconscious hoax.

The voices are but my nagging guilt.

The coldness is my intent.

If anything should ever go the way I intended, I would wait until it eventually went awry. I am cursed in success, but blessed in life. It isn’t enough to wake up and breathe. It isn’t enough to get by. It isn’t enough to let life saturate my soul and drown me in my own delusion.

Pain is a gripping vine, entwined about my heart, nursing the last tendrils of joy from the course, beating fibers. Over time, I have repressed the pinch on my soul, but never the symptom.

The carpet is soft under foot, dampening the impending steps that shall take me away from my bed and hurl me onto unforgiving streets filled with those that could never understand.

But I am only now.

I am only this moment.

Tears

When I piss, I imagine the waste taking away the darkness inside of me; I imagine it all going away… becoming deluded with the waste of others as I flush it into obscurity. There is happiness in that single thought, a happiness that is fleeting.

I wonder what it would be like to wash it all away: the taste, the rancid reminders, the polluted afterthoughts. I could get swept away in such delusions. I could get carried away and never come back.

My body is unclean. My mind is just as soiled. There is something living inside of me and it hates who I am. When I stare at myself in the nude, completely exposed, I can encourage the bile. This thing inside of me like the bile, enjoys the wrenching guts and the nausea that comes ripping with the pains.

I look at myself like this for a long time. There is no way to hide who I am when I’m vulnerable, no way to shroud the waste and the regret and the vile intent.

Water runs from the tap, cold and sure. Water is one of the only things that exist with certainty. It has purpose and destination. It is unrestricted even when it is contained. It is always moving until it goes stagnant.

I pour the water into the back of the container where it will be heated and pumped through unrestricted into the basket and blend with the grounds, and filter into the awaiting pot which I will pour into a stained and cracked cup and nurse until I’ve had my fill.

The first smoke of the day is always the sweetest, very little can compare to its pleasure. It kills me silently over time. So slow that you could never watch it as it happens. It is a silent murderer. Murder is a blessing.

From the tabletop, I retrieve a pen and flick a bit of un-necessity from its tip and let it work through my fingers, feeling the smooth contours slide across my palm as I twirl it around and place it between forefinger and thumb.

There isn’t any aspect of research for what I’m writing. There never is. It is something deeper than what others have told me to write. The words are bold and rigid. They remind me of a butchers block. But there is no other way to tell my story.

There are lapses of time when I don’t know who I am. I call them reprieve. Those are the silent moments when I am truly free. No boundaries exist. No one to stall the impending thought.

It happens on a whim and I am thankful for the recess from the mundane. It is my moment.

I wonder if this is what it will be like when I’m dead. I wonder about nothingness. I wonder about how much time will pass until my nothingness is no more.

My mind is always rising and falling. There’s a bellows in my head expanding my skull. It mocks the air from my mouth and the wind through the trees of my soul, firmly rooted. It holds my mortality in its hands.

I am exposed.

Her hands are sure and delicate. Everything they encounter is felt. She touches with purpose and I cannot live with their unreasonable approach. She can’t seem to keep herself from touching things. Where ever we go, she fondles the items in her way. Perhaps these items are asking for her touch, just in the same way that I ask for it. Maybe she brings out the need in everything she encounters. I’m too foolish to really know.

I watch her there at the small garden in the park. She must feel the flowers; let them drift through her fingers. Pollen loosens and spreads across her skin before drifting off into the air. In the sunlight, I can see the tiny particles rise and dance and get caught up in the gentle breeze before floating away.

She smiles at me and I act as if I am unaware.

She turns her attention back to the flower bed in a way that resounds with self-consciousness. I think she is shy or put off by my unemotional reply.

I am next to her, so close that I can smell her perfume mingling with the scent of lavender coming from the garden. Her eyes are soft as she looks upon me again and I try to smile, but the emotion is forced and she can tell.

I put the cigarette out into the stone ashtray on the table. The weathered wood reminds me of driftwood, maybe a piece of planking from a ship that was lost out at sea. The image is encouraging. Tiny flakes of paint have been lost to time and eventually none of it will remain. One day, all that will be left is gray.

Sometimes I can imagine it on rough, violent seas, rising and falling with the waves. I see the seaweed clinging to its surface and becoming washed away in the spray. It is constantly moving, constantly at war with the ripping surf as it churns in the course water.

I imagine it tumbling down into abyss and bobbing up once again into the raging world. Perhaps it screams. Perhaps it moans with the breakers that try to drown it.

My peace is interrupted.

I hear people screaming out in the street below my apartment. Their voices are filled with passion. I wish I had had the courage to scream that way, but my lungs will not let me. My fragility would make me lose my nerve.

“See how beautiful they are?” she asks me, holding up a flower. “No one asks them to be that way, they just are.”

“I see,” I reply.

“Do you suppose that is the way with most things?”

“That they are just the way they are and nothing can change them?” I ask.

“Yes,” she replies.

“I don’t believe in obscurity.”

The edge of her lip ascends as she gifts me a smile. I shouldn’t have said what I did, but nothing else came to mind. I think she understands.

The way she raises her slender form is like the sun. She is unaware of her beauty and I love her for it.

“Maybe we should just go,” she says.

I agree and we’re away through the park on a stone pathway that leads to a pond where ducks waddle up along the shore. Swans paddle through the misty water at the edge of the pond, dipping in their heads for refreshment.

She would be better off with anyone else by her side.

“It’s beautiful, don’t you think?” she asks me.

“But they’re swimming in their own filth,” I say.

“Everyone does some time or another,” she replies.

“I suppose that’s true.”

She leans down and makes kissing noises to the ducks, trying to get them to come closer. They waddle away at a faster pace. I hear her giggle in amusement.

Screaming

The room is stale. I open the window and pull aside the curtains. It is still early and the sun has yet to rise beyond the opposing apartment to drench my home in light. When the sun passes the other building, I will shut the windows and draw the curtains.

In the bathroom, I run the water in the tub and wait for it to heat up. The gentle tapping of the leaky faucet is like a far away drum beating out the rhythm of regret. The sound calms me as I remove my clothes and place them on the counter next to the sink.

I am cautious as I enter. I let the water grace my skin until I am sure that it isn’t too hot. Passively, I let the water hit my face and course along my neck and over my head as I look downward at the drain. My skin tingles as I become accustomed to the change in temperature. I shiver before my body begins to warm to the needle-like touch of the spray.

I wash my body and hair with the same bar of soap. It smells sterile and unobtrusive. The lather covers me and washes away as I move into the stream from the nozzle. It only takes away the dirt on the surface, what lies beneath still remains.

With a subtle moan, the water stops once I turn the faucet off. There is a bang from somewhere in the walls when I push it in fully. I pull the shower curtain to the side and take my towel from the wall. It smells musty from being damp and drying so many times.

I wipe away the beads of water from my skin and replace the towel to the bar on the wall. I will wash it again sometime.

Naked, I sit at the table and pick up the pen. It asks me for this in its own subtle way; the softness of its touch, the grace of its ink, the spread of the words on the clean, white page. The pen is infinite. It can go anywhere. It can do anything.

We’ve left the park and walk into the streets just beyond. She is by my side and is enamored with the way the wind plays with her hair. She extends her hand and clasps it around my own. I am taken aback and uncomfortable with the closeness. It is foreign and makes my palm tingle.

A few blocks away and we’re at a small coffee shop situated between a bookstore and a boutique. There are tables set up outside with black flaking paint and signs of wear on the tops.

She sits down at one of the tables and I go in to place our order. She wants something sweet and I choose plain, black coffee.

“We could go away, you know?” she says, dismissively.

“Go where?” I ask.

“Anywhere,” she replies. “Maybe we could go somewhere that you would feel more comfortable; somewhere where you would feel at ease.”

“I don’t think such a place exists,” I say between sips of coffee.

“Still, we could try.”

“Pick a place,” I say. “I’ve never been good with knowing what’s best for me.”

She laughs, “I don’t know. Maybe we could just take a vacation somewhere; just the two of us. We could get a way for a while. When we get back, you’ll have a new outlook on things.”

I nod. “That would be nice.”

Fear

My chair squeaks and pops as I lean back a bit to get more comfortable. I found it alongside a dumpster on the way home from a thrift store. I couldn’t find any nails in it. Every part of it was put together with dowels. It is old and smells of decay. The yellow paint is nearly gone, but its surface is smooth. I write everything from this chair, and upon a table that would be better off as trash.

I run my hands along the tabletop and let my fingers course over the rough grain. I have done this so many times that the gray, parched wood has began to take on a polished sheen.

The taste in my mouth is of stale cigarettes and bitter coffee. My eyes are still flaking away the sleep that the shower didn’t remove. My hands are dry and marked where the pen has bitten in.

 The table creaks as I push against it to get up. I stretch for a moment and go into my bedroom to get dressed. I pick out something casual. I put on my clothes in the same way a corpse might get ready for its funeral. The wrinkles aren’t as bad as I first thought, but the death inside of them is still the same.

I grab my tablet and pen and put them into a satchel that she bought me. The leather is worn and soft to the touch. The buckle on the front flap is brass and feels cold as I clasp it. I sling it over my shoulder, take my keys from the counter in the kitchen and walk out into the hallway that leads away from my reprieve.

I can taste the cleaning solvents as I take to the stairs and descend to the main entry. I’ve forgotten my hat, but don’t go back to retrieve it. The weather is mild and accommodating once I’m outside and I can hear birds rustling in the treetops.

The soles of my shoes scrape softly against the sidewalk as I head out into the streets. I wonder about the people who pass me in their cars and on bicycles as I walk. I wonder where they are going and what they think as they look my way.

I see a squirrel cross the street through traffic. The animal dodges, turns back, thinks better and darts to the other side and up an old oak tree. It happens in a flash and I wonder by what stroke of luck it wasn’t killed.

Someone nods as they pass me. He is bald and overweight. He wears a blue polo shirt and a pair of jeans. I make eye contact, but for only a moment and look back as he passes by to see if he will do the same. He walks away with intent as if he has purpose; somewhere to go, somewhere to be. He looks familiar. Maybe I’ve seen him in the apartments before. Maybe I’ve seen him somewhere else.

The coffee shop is ahead two blocks and already, I can see patrons standing outside to get a cup. I get in line and shuffle along with the others who are waiting.

We shuffle along, waiting for our fix. It is a type of determination one might find at a methadone clinic. The faces here are worn and waiting. Fidgeting hands feel for loose change in lint filled pockets. Mouths gap at the impending drug. I am with them too. I need it just as bad.

When it’s my turn, the cashier asks, “How can I help you?”

“A large coffee, black,” I reply.

I pay for my purchase, cradle the cup of coffee like an infant, and walk outside to one of the tables. I place my satchel on the top and pull out my tablet and pen.

“It could be fun,” she says to me. “We’ll stay at my father’s cabin. It’s really nice I think you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I will,” I say.

“But you’ll have to leave your notebook at home,” she says with a flash her eyes.

“All right,” I reply, “but what will we do for an entire weekend?”

“Use our imagination,” she winks.

The brown leather is soft and thick. The brass buckle has tarnished, but I could polish it at any time. I think I prefer the age on its surface.

Sewn to the sides are long straps with a brass adjustment to connect them in the center. It is also aged from my touch.

It is the simplest of things. No flair, nothing flashy.

She knew I would like it. Perhaps she knows me better than I know myself.

I can’t help but stare at the satchel as I write; its soft sheen demands it.

We rent a car and drive the three hours into the woods through towering trees and wet ferns. Eventually, there wasn’t a single sign of civilization left to encourage me to turn back and I knew we were about to arrive.

The cabin is small with an overhang porch that gracefully eases out along the front, shadowing a set of raw timber chairs and a small table situated in their center.

She walks up the stairs, extends onto her tiptoes, and feels around on top of the door frame. She holds a shiny, silver key in her hand and fits it into the lock on the door. With an easy click, the door opens and she pushes it inward.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” she asks.

“Very nice,” I reply, looking over the modest furnishings, “Where’s the rest of it?”

She playfully slaps me on the shoulder. “Don’t be silly, this is all we’ll need.”

I go back to the car, take out our bags and place them on the porch. I go back for a second trip and retrieve the groceries and the cooler filled with ice. I can taste something in the air, something wild and untamed. It has a rancid odor like depravity with a subtle, underlying sweetness.

The cabin is dark and damp, cold like a cave, stagnant like a tomb. I wonder where she has gone. There doesn’t seem to be a sign of her anywhere. And then there was light.

Smooth orange light pours from a gas lamp on a small desk at the back of the room, illuminating a space no bigger than the area which it sits. She is standing there, drenched in the glow, almost absorbing the radiance. I should tell her that is what I think, but I remain silent.

“See? It’s nice, isn’t it?” she asks me. Her features are as soft as the light. She is almost translucent in the glow.

“It’s a little stale, maybe we should open some windows,” I reply.

“And we could go for a walk while it airs out,” she says with enthusiasm.

There is a trail behind the cabin that stretches through the damp forest. The ground is rich and black with minerals that seep to the surface. Ferns dart up here and there along the path, mist rises from their delicate folds. I should be happier.

Once were deeper into the woods, she looks at me, purpose graces her face. “What do you want out of life?” she asks.

I’m taken aback at first, but answer in time, “I want to write,” I begin. “I want to live and drink coffee with someone I care about. I want to be happy.”

“Am I someone you care about?” she asks.

“Yes, very much,” I reply.

“Or is it that you just don’t want to drink your coffee alone?” her smile is timid.

“I’ve drank coffee alone for a long time,” I say. “But I would prefer to drink it with someone I care about; someone who cares about me.”

“You’re revealing too much.” Her expression is scolding.

“How so?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Must everything be so sour with you?”

I’m confused. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“It’s okay to tell me that you care about me without being so matter-of-fact about it.”

“I care about you,” I tell her.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” she laughs.

Something scrambles off into the forest as we approach its hiding place. It scampers away without revealing itself. As it darts off into the foliage, it shakes leaves and saplings in its wake, dotting its path with misty dewdrops and dancing underbrush.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to be free like that?” she asks. “To run in the forest, scavenge your own food, and not be indebted to anyone or anything?”

“The freedom would be nice, but the consequences wouldn’t.”

“How do you mean?”

“That animal there is also free to be eaten by another animal or starve, or get sick and die. Freedom is an expensive luxury.”

She frowns at this. “But freedom is worth the expense. People have fought for less.”

“And they have died for much more,” I reply.

She sees a bush along the trail, full of ripe berries and leans down to pick a few. The deep purple juice stains her hand as she puts them in her mouth.

“What are you doing?” I ask in disgust.

“I’m having some berries, silly.”

“But you don’t know what’s on them. Animals may have pissed on them,” I say. “Worse, they could be poison.”

“They’re not poison. See here?” She shows me where it looks like something has been nibbling on the berries on a lower branch. “Animals wouldn’t eat poisoned berries.”

“But there’s still the matter of the piss,” I say.

“I take it that you don’t want any.” She smiles with a mouthful of purple mush.

“No thanks, there’s perfectly clean, untainted food back at the cabin,” I say.

She laughs and shakes her head.

Night

There is a boy at the table opposite mine listening to his music so loud through headphones that I can feel the bass through my coffee spoon. He is bobbing his head to the beat and tapping on the table with zest. He is completely ignorant of anyone else.

I can see other people at their tables annoyed with him, but they do nothing. He spews out a few verses of some undistinguishable lyrics and continues to tap his hands on the tabletop.

After looking around to see if anyone is going to say anything, I find that no one is going to make the attempt. Neither am I.

I place my notebook into my satchel, clasp it closed and stand. I look back at the boy; still oblivious, still obnoxious. My face is hot with anger, but I leave anyway.

A few blocks away and I’m at the park, sitting at a bench that overlooks the pond. I use my satchel as a base on my lap to write.

By the time we’re back at the cabin, night is beginning to fall, crumbling past the trees in pinks and purples, gathering on the horizon, drunk and solemn.

I hold her hand as we negotiate along the final length of trail. Darkness overshadows the forest. New sounds emerge from the canopy above, new creatures that bring the night, making known their intentions.

She looks at me with almost invisible eyes, shrouded in darkness, but still glimmering from the impending moon. Her grip tightens and I can hear her soft, slow breath in my ear. She wants to say something; I can feel it on the base of my neck where the tiny hairs stand at attention.

I’m afraid not to say anything for fear of losing the moment, but I turn to her and ask, “What is it?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she replies.

“There must be something,” I say.

“It’s just that these are the moments I love the most,” she explains. “The moments when everything is quiet and you can almost imagine that you’re the only one left in the world. Just you and the person you love, holding hands in the darkness.”

I smile, but she can no longer see my face. “Like the darkness is empty?”

“Something like that,” she says, “but still so full of life.”

For a moment I can imagine being alone with her, I can realize a certain amount of nothingness, but it is gone as quickly as it emerges.

She releases my hand and opens the door to the cabin. She fumbles through the darkness and lights a match. An eruption of light fades into a dim glow and she ignites the wick inside the lamp. She repeats the process and another lamp begins to glow. I can taste the kerosene in the air.

In the timid glow, I watch her as she stacks a few logs into the stove, constructing a triangle. From the floor, she retrieves some old newspaper and wads it up into a tight ball and stuffs it between the openings of the pyramid. Within seconds, the fire is bright and cracking, engulfing the wood.

She plays with something on the chimney pipe and the fire roars inside the stove, leaping up and licking the top for a few seconds before returning to dancing flame.

“Where did you learn how to do that?” I ask.

“My father taught me when we used to come out here when I was a little girl,” she explains. “He said it was basic survival and something I should know. The funny thing is that the only time I ever use it is when I come out here.”

“I never learnt those types of things,” I tell her. “My father left my mother and me when I was too young to notice and we always lived in the city. The knowledge was never needed.”

She looks at me with sad eyes and I’m afraid I’ve said too much.

“Well, the next time I do it, you can watch and then you’ll know how to do it too,” she says, seeing the fear in my eyes at what I’ve revealed.

The cabin is getting warmer and the dampness has receded. The coldness lingers on the furniture, but it warms quickly to the touch.

She is at the cooler when she pulls out a package of meat and places it on the counter. From the paper bags, she takes out a box of noodles and a can of sauce.

I sit on the edge of the couch. The raw wood arms have smoothed from wear over the years and feel polished beneath my fingertips. The smell of the fire couples the effect, I think. The wood beneath my hand, the logs burning in the fire, the trees outside; it all reminds me of the circle of life. Life loses its luster if it were not for the impending death that all things suffer.

I watch her shuffle through the cupboards on her tiptoes, moving various pots and pans until she finds what she’s looking for.

“Here, take this and get some water at the hand well,” she says, handing me a pot.

I look at her confused.

“It’s the thing next to the house with the long lever on the side. Take a flashlight and you shouldn’t have a problem finding it, it’s red,” she says.

I take a flashlight from the compartment on the side of her bag and switch it on. I open the front door and the cold air hits me like a refreshing drink of water. The feeling makes me realize how dry it has become in the cabin.

On the front porch, I take a deep breath of cool air and savor it for a moment. My skin tingles as I close my eyes and wait. The forest is silent and dark, as mysterious as blindness. After I’ve had my fill, I point the light toward the ground and walk around the cabin before finally spotting the faded red pump that she had told me about.

With the pot on the ground, I lift the lever and push down. A trickle of water comes from the faucet and pings against the inner surface of the pot. Again, I lift the lever and push down with the same effect. I lift and push in rapid succession and the water comes freely, filling the pot.

I’m careful not to spill the water on my way back into the cabin. I turn off the light and place it in my pocket to hold the pot with both hands and negotiate around to the front door in darkness.

She is standing there, bathed in the faint light like an angel. I have never seen her this way before. It’s as if all of my troubles have washed away just from the sight of her. She takes the pot of water from me, but I don’t want her to turn away. I blink hard, trying to capture her image like a snapshot in my mind. I blink again to make sure the picture stays.

The curvature of her back is elegant and graceful as she places the pot on the stove to boil. The muscles of her calves tighten and lengthen as she stretches on her toes. The contours of her body stir something inside of me and I am enamored with her movements. It’s as if she were the very root of elegance. But what’s more beautiful is the fact that she doesn’t realize it.

I have been so still that a bird lands on the bench beside me. Its movements are quick, almost jittery as its head darts from one side to the other. It looks up, down, behind and forward. It cocks its head to the side as if peering with only one eye at the seat of the bench. It looks directly at me. It is perfectly still.

I move my hand and it flies away.

They always fly away.

She has cut her hand. The blood lingers at the wound and gently courses down along her palm to her wrist. She makes a sound like a whimper and then a sigh.

I stand to go to her, to see if there is anything I can do.

With a white cloth, she covers the cut and presses down on it, stopping the blood.

“How bad is it?” I ask as I stand next to her and reach for her wrist.

“It will be fine.” She removes the cloth and looks at the cut. “It’s not very deep. Could you get me a bandage out of the first aid kit in my pack?”

I fish the little red box from beneath her clothes and go back to her. I open the box after placing it on the counter and find an elastic bandage.

Her movements are precise and graceful as she removes the backing from the bandage. With a single stroke, she places it over the cut.

“Good as new,” she says.

“Are you sure,” I ask with worry in my voice.

“I’m positive, I’ll be fine.” She smiles the worry from my face. “Now go sit back down and I’ll have dinner ready in a few minutes.”

The sizzling meat brings a savory scent to the cabin; deep, hearty and bold with the seasonings that she has spread over it. I imagine all of the meals prepared here in the very same way. How many meals have been prepared here, I wonder? How many cuts endured?

She brings me a plate filled with pasta and slices of meat. Even on the tin camping plate, it looks masterful. It looks as if it should be somewhere more fitting.

I gladly accept the food and begin to eat. My mouth waters before ever tasting it. The smell alone is enough to set off my senses. The first bite is like the cure for starvation. The second is like a long lost love returning for embroiled passion. The third and I am swooning in lust.

Her eyes are soft as she watches me devour what she has prepared. They are like that of a mother over a gleeful child. She reminds me of my mother in some small way and that fact is frightening.

My mother continuously overcompensated for my father not being around. She went beyond her duties to make me feel wanted. I cried a lot in those days. Not from my father leaving, but for him never having been there in the first place. As I eat my meal, I feel the urge to cry over those days that were empty and void. I feel like falling to the floor and screaming like the child that I am.

Maybe she can sense something because she places her hand on my shoulder. Her wounded and bandaged hand caresses away the urgency of pain. My heart swoons again and I’m fine. I’m back with her in the cabin and the world is right again.

“How do you like it?” she asks.

“It’s perfect,” I reply.

Again, she smiles.

I sit and watch the sun part through the clouds and drift off behind the horizon. I live for moments like these. Moments like these are all there is to live for.

I place my notebook in my satchel and fasten the buckle on the top. The strap slings freely over my shoulder and I look back one last time at the fading sun. The day is at an end.

My mother’s pain is but a drifting memory. She suffered so. I must have been fourteen when she lost her first leg. I remember walking into her hospital room and seeing the skin pulled back to let in the air. The doctors were trying to heal the infection. It left an impression which I cannot describe fully.

For days, they left her that way, trying to make the blood flow, trying to get a handle on the infection. I had thought of it as barbaric and cruel to leave her that way. I became sick every time I saw her like that.

When all options were exhausted, they removed her leg. I picked her up at the hospital and drove home to her sobbing. She was listless and distant for weeks.

I brought her food while she lay in bed, refusing to look down beneath the covers. Every face she made was a frown. Every sound she uttered was a sigh.

I was too young to do anything but care for her. I was too innocent to understand.

She became more distant as time went on. Beneath her occasional smile was despair. Beneath her eventual laughter was a scream.

I watched her wither away slowly. I watched as her other leg atrophy and die. I watched all of this before I even knew what it was that I was seeing.

Sometimes at night, when it’s dark and the world has gone quiet, I can still hear her sobbing. I can hear her moan out in pain. I can hear the tears rip across her rose colored cheek.

My apartment is cool and listless as it always is. The couch is empty and my bedroom is cold and alone. I will sleep on the floor tonight with the blanket I took from the cabin. The quilted patterns and hand stitched designs will help me drift off. To feel them against my skin, rough and rounded will encourage sleep. Sleep is always encouraging.

Faces

I start the coffee before ever stepping foot in the bathroom to relieve myself. The pain in my bladder is real and somehow comforting. I hold it well after I have poured the water into the reservoir. I stare at the wall above the sink and clasp the edges of the counter firmly until the blood has left the surface of my skin and made my fingertips white.

When I can hold it no longer, I go to the bathroom, lift the lid and piss. A rush of pleasure hits my abdomen and filters away slowly as I finish. There is something unreal in the way the excitement drifts away. If you can hold that emotion for even a second, it is far longer than any ecstasy you will ever feel. But then the emptiness comes. It is as exact as a knife and it cuts just as deeply.

The bubbling, spitting sound resounds and pops letting me know that the coffee is done. I pour it into my cracked cup and place it on the table next to my unopened satchel.

I sit back in the weathered chair and ponder what it was like not to know anything in my youth. My ignorance was confounding, perplexing, and sure. My grasp of reality was fleeting. Now, I know too much. Retrospect is hateful.

I light a cigarette and remove the notebook from the satchel. I open it, and place it front of me. I no longer care what it says, only what it has yet to say.

It’s always what will be.

And never what is.

We make love in the night in a sleepy haze of surreal blissfulness. Her body tenses in my grasp and I spread her legs and make myself known to her. She rears her head back and moans like the dead. Her tongue caresses her lips. Her hips move with mine.

She pulls me into her, ever deeper until there isn’t any difference between her body and my own. We are connected and become one. I smell the perfume on her neck mixing with sweat and sour and sex.

We breathe heavy and hold onto one another as if this was our last time together. There is no sorrow now. No pain resides. I hold back the urge to finish until she contorts and tenses with release. My back arches when I complete and the wetness rises to my groin as she tenses again.

We kiss. We hold one another firmly in the darkness. We let our sweat mingle and meld. We are spent and comforting, blissful and sleepy. Our eyes close in unison and we are dreaming.

Morning brings the chirping of birds and the clicks of squirrels high in the trees above us. The pitter-patter of tiny footsteps clatters on the rooftop. Sunlight filters in through the rustic windows and drenches the worn floor as flecks of dust dance in its wake.

She is naked next to me and I can feel the softness of her skin against my own. Her breasts are tucked into my side. Her nipples poke at me as if they already know.

Her eyes open in sleepy resolve as her lip ascends slightly, massaging a sensual smirk. I can feel her breath on my neck. I can taste her sex from beneath the quilt.

It’s as if gravity has found purpose to keep us there, rooted and staring into each other’s eyes. I bring her closer to me and kiss her face, nestle my mouth into her neck, drag my lips against her skin.

With slight touches of my tongue against my lips, I can taste the salt from her skin, almost sweet as it enters my mouth.

Sometimes words are not needed.

The graceful arch of her back as she walks is enough to make me forget myself. The lean muscles are hypnotic as she stands and moves as elegant as a tiger. She leans down and picks up a piece of wood to stoke the fire. I can see her femininity mound up between her thighs as she places the log into the stove. I can taste her from across the room.

“Coffee?” she asks.

“I would love some,” I say, rolling over onto my side, still watching the way her skin dances.

She takes an old coffee pot from the cupboard and removes its insides, placing them on the counter. Her nakedness is revealing as she unknowingly sways to the door like a temptress.

She opens the door, exposing herself to the morning light. The sun sweeps across her skin, accentuating ever curve, every lurid line.

“Wait! What are you doing?” I ask, taken aback.

“I’m going to get some water,” she replies, looking at me as if I were crazy.

“You can’t go out there like that,” I say. “You should put something on.”

“We’re out in the middle of the wilderness, it’ll be fine.” She dismisses me with clarity.

I chuckle. “I suppose you’re right.”

Stand

I am starving.

I’m hungry for the sun, for companionship, for life. If it were here, I would swallow it whole, let it slide along my tongue, and come to rest in my malformed intestines. I would let it rest inside of me and rot until I have absorbed its brilliance, its sorrow, and extinguished it from existence.

I slide my notebook into the satchel and place my pen on top. I straighten the chair against the table and place my cup on the counter next to the sink before I go into my room to get dressed.

Clean clothes do very little to make the growth on my face seem less obtrusive. I look out of place wherever I go, in whatever manner of dress I garnish.

A memory comes to mind. I can remember the first time my mother allowed me to dress myself. I was in second grade and picked a red and black striped shirt along with jeans. I felt as if I had accomplished something, as if I had discovered what it was to be free and individual.

I must have pondered for half of an hour about what I would wear. It seemed as though my mother were testing me. I felt as if this were the first real trial before becoming a man. Looking back, it was the simplest of things, but at the time, it was like choosing the razor with which to accept your circumcision.

In my young mind, I was whole. I was the boy that had chosen his own shirt, his own pants. I was liberated in some small way. I was an individual.

I can’t remember my mother’s face when she saw me, saw that I was appropriate and groomed. Those memories are unnecessary. The memory that holds merit is the way I felt when I stepped out of innocence. That day began my path towards who I eventually became, who I am today and who I will be tomorrow.

I take my coat from the closet and walk out the door.

With my satchel over my shoulder, I nurse the streets with subtle footfalls to a café a few blocks away. I take a seat at the counter and place my order. I take out my notebook and write while I’m waiting for my food.

The smell from the kitchen falls away and I’m able to remember.

We are walking along a trail, narrow and damp with morning dew. She is beside me, smiling as she always does. I can see the happiness in her face, the innocence in her eyes, and the excitement about her flushed cheeks.

I wonder what it is like to have such feelings, to see the mystery in the world, to be captivated.

“We’ll turn here,” she says, pointing along the fork in the path. “This part of the trail winds down along the ridge into a field of grass. It’s absolutely beautiful.”

The forest opens into a clearing and I can see a fawn grazing with its mother. The doe twists her head toward where we are standing, twitches her ears, and returns to eating the tall grass.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” she whispers.

“Yes,” I reply.

There is a type of majesty in the way they’re grazing. Always alert, always ready to run.

In a few minutes, the deer are off. The fawn trots along behind its mother into the grass and down a trail that merges back into the forest.

A high cliff extends upward, blotting out the sun and shadowing the bend in the trail that leads downward and out of sight.

She takes my hand and leads me along. I follow. She points out nature as we go, naming certain flowers and shrubs, calling insects by name, treading carefully where we walk.

There is something about her that feeds my soul slowly. Like a dropper into a glass. Every movement, every smile and encouragement brings me that much closer to pouring out over the sides.

“You’ve never told me about your mother,” she says.

I’m taken aback. I don’t know what to say. Honestly, I don’t care to remember. “What would you like to know?”

“How did she pass away?” she asks.

The memories are there, right at the surface, ready to flood out. “She was a childhood diabetic and she didn’t take care of herself.”

“So she was always sick?”

“For as long as I can remember,” I reply.

“It must have been hard for you, seeing her die that way.”

“It was just a part of life,” I say, looking down at the ground. “She could have lived longer if she had taken care of herself better.”

“You don’t want to talk about it, do you?” she asks, frowning.

“No, its fine,” I reply, looking back at her. “I guess you have to relive the past eventually.”

“I’m not trying to pry.” She forces a smile from the corner of her mouth.

“No, really, it’s all right. I don’t mind talking about it. I guess my problem is that I was angry with her for dying, for leaving me so soon, for not taking better care of her health, for leaving me alone.”

“But you’re not alone, you have me,” she says, grazing my arm with the tips of her fingers. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Her voice is reassuring and calm; it brings the thoughts from my head. “After she lost her legs, I thought she would have exercised like the doctor had told her to, but she didn’t. She just sat there depressed, unable, or unwilling to do anything about it. Everyone tried to get her out of her slump, but it never happened. It was like she was ready to die.”

“That was it then? She just died away slowly?”

“No, she went in for surgery to fix some issues with her circulation so she wouldn’t have to lose her arms and she got a blood clot in one of her lungs. She died on the operating table. It was a Sunday morning.”

“How old were you when she died?”

“I was twenty.”

“That must have been so hard.” Her eyes narrow.

“It felt like someone had ripped out my guts,” I reply.

“I can’t imagine losing one of my parents,” she says, griping my hand tighter.

“Neither could I, but then it happens and you become someone else, someone a little bit more numb.”

We cross a stream by negotiating along slippery rocks covered in green. I slip and catch myself before falling.

“Be careful,” she says.

After making it through some dense underbrush on the other side of the stream, we find another trail and continue to walk while I continue talking about the past.

“I drove through a snowstorm to get back home in time for her funeral. I cried most of the way,” I say. “I wasn’t afraid of dying, I was afraid of living, I was afraid of what would come next.”

“She died in the winter?”

“Yes. It was the coldest winter on record. I remember they had a hard time digging her grave because the ground was so frozen. It was something like twenty below zero with the wind chill,” I recount. “And we stood there shivering while they lowered in her casket.”

“I’ve always lived on the West Coast; I can’t even imagine weather like that.”

“It was bitter cold, so cold that it took your breath away. In a way, I would rather have not been able to feel, so the numbness was welcomed.”

Her eyes brighten when she sees a meadow open up in the forest. There is a fallen tree directly in the center with flowers growing around it, extending through most of the clearing.

“This is what it looks like when people haven’t come to corrupt nature,” she says. “I brought some food with me in my pack. I was thinking we could have lunch out here before heading back.”

“Sounds perfect,” I reply and take a seat next to her on the tree.

The chirping of birds is like a symphony. Their tiny, whistling voices seem to be coming from everywhere. Their song makes me relax, makes me appreciate the moment and forget about death.

There are butterflies swooping in and fluttering off. The scene is like a postcard graced by the hand of God. And I wonder why He chose this particular place to perform miracles.

She has brought cheese and bread and wine along with a couple of plastic cups to drink from. We sit there and eat while watching the butterflies flap and flutter and the birds dart from one tree to the next and the squirrels chatter high up in the canopy.

It’s as if time has stopped for a moment, just for us. There isn’t pain or suffering. No one is going hungry in some third world country, nor is there greed or hatred. Death is a fleeting child and loss is something of the past.

Her fingers are delicate and slender as she picks up a bit of cheese to go with her bread. She holds it up to her mouth for a moment as if savoring its scent and nibbles at it in a way that reminds me of a shy mouse afraid to satisfy its hunger.

Thin beams of sunlight shower down through the treetops and blanket the forest floor, revealing life in its smallest form, scuttling through leaves and pine needles and over sprouts that are stretching their way up from the soil.

“These are the moments that make life worth living,” I say.

Her face erupts in joy. “Yes they are,” she says, sounding relieved. “Yes, they truly are.”

I don’t understand the sounds of laughter. They are vague and unfortunate when coming from strangers. I ponder over how they can seem so happy in their small conversations when so much is wrong in life.

They feed themselves and laugh over one phrase or another, dismissing the fact that everything eventually ceases to be.

It’s as if they are bereft of the idea that there are others suffering while they make light of it and stuff their faces with more than they can possible consume in one sitting. They hold their forks to their pompous mouths and feed their fattened tongues. They wear sour expressions when everything isn’t just so-so and refuse to tip those that slave for their desires.

My aunt had helped me through my mother’s death. She made it seem as if it were something that needed to be for my mother’s memory to remain untainted in my mind.

It took years for me to numb after my mother passed. It took years for the scars to heal even after I picked at the scabs. There’s nothing like remembering pain to force yourself to cry, hoping that one day you will eventually run dry.

My aunt encouraged me, made me look to the future no matter how bleak it seemed. We would have dinner together and talk away the evening as if none of the pain were real. She had a way with making the guilt diminish; the guilt I felt for watching my mother die, the guilt that I felt for not being really there.

As distant as my mother was, I was even more so. I shut myself up in my room and let the music pound at my eardrums through old and beaten headphones. I let the music take me to other places, places that didn’t know of suffering and despair. The music would talk to me and listen to my incoherent ramblings.

“What else were you to do?” my aunt would ask.

“I could have done more,” I would say.

“And let your childhood disappear completely?”

“I should have done more,” I would whisper.

I return to the bowl of soup that the waitress has served me and stare deeply into the broth, watching the contents float to the surface and back into the dark liquid.

Tiny drops of grease swirl on the surface like algae on a pond, swirling and merging into larger globules of fat and spice.

I take a spoonful and sip it away. I take another and cough slightly when it goes down the wrong pipe. I close my eyes and savor the taste for a moment before swallow again. There is comfort in the moment.

There is nothing now but the residual calm and sounds of forks and spoons clanking against bowls and plates. It all filters away and I pick up my pen once more.

As we lie in bed and wait for sleep I say, “I’m afraid of living sometimes.”

“You are?” she asks.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Why?” she asks.

“I’m afraid that if I live too much, there won’t be any life left for the future. I’m afraid that if I love, it will be fleeting. I’m afraid if I care too much, the things I care about will drift away.”

“So you’re afraid of change?” she asks.

“I’m afraid everything else will change and I will not be able to follow.”

“Sometimes life scares me too,” she says.

I lie there for a while and stare off into the darkness. It is whole and all encompassing. Not like the way it exists in the city with street lights and signs to guide the way, but an absolute darkness that consumes even the slightest thought.

When it is this dark, I imagine infinite death swallowing me and leaving me to think forever, devouring my body and leaving me with only my mind. It terrifies me.

If you’re lucky in sleep, the darkness will bring light, the dawning of a new day where you can ponder the blackness again. Life is bound by its own repetition.

“I love you,” she says as she begins to drift off.

“I love you too,” I say without thinking.

I’ve finished my soup and pay the bill after leaving a suitable tip for the waitress. Outside, the sun has gone away, replaced by gray clouds and calm air. I can smell the rain coming like an electrical current that leaves a sweet sting on the tip of my tongue.

All around, the trees gently sway with the touch of wind from the oncoming storm. Bright green leaves sway and settle high up in their branches like a warning from the heavens.

I flip up the collar of my jacket and tuck my hands deeply into my pockets. I walk briskly, trying to beat the weather. The first drops of rain tell me differently.

I’m almost sprinting as the wind gusts and throws rain into my face. I tuck my satchel beneath my coat and lower my head in acceptance.

The rain drenches me. My hair is wet and flattened to my head. My eyes are blurry. My heart races as I run to the entrance to my apartment building.

I place the satchel on the kitchen counter and go into the bathroom to remove my clothes. I dry my hair with a fresh towel and run it along my face, paying special attention to my eyes. I let the scent of fabric softener linger at my nose before removing the towel and hang it from the rod of the shower curtain.

From my living room window, I watch the rain intensify, pelt the street below and skip off the pavement like tiny explosions. I watch the world blur from the rain and wind and dislodge leaves from trees too rooted to protest.

I lick my lips as the sky opens up a flood to drown the scenery away.

I retrieve my notebook and take the lap desk from the corner and sit on the couch. I close my eyes and try not to think. I try to silence my mind and think about infinity. Forever is transitory, and falls away with a single thought. It is gone and leaves me in mortality.

I feel peace for a moment and fall asleep, sitting on the couch with my notebook open on my lap before me.

There are wild dreams about loss and redemption. There are visions of forests that never were and love torn away. There are feelings of guilt and heartstrings ripped away by fate. But, finally, there is only silence and forgetfulness.

In my dreams, my grandmother is there. Her face is calm and knowing. She tells me to write it down, write it all down and let it out of your mind. She tells me that one day I can look back at it all and see how far I’ve come.

I listen to her and sprawl out my thoughts. Every nuance, every memory and emotion goes down onto the paper. I wish I couldn’t feel. The numbness would be inviting.

My grandmother is strong when she tells me this. I know nothing of her loss. She has seen so many people go away that I can’t imagine her sorrow.

I wonder what it must have been like for her to lose a child; to have that which you birthed pass away into the night. I wonder what she dreams of and how the images haunt her.

When I was young, I watched my grandmother’s hands curl and knot from arthritis, I watched her hunch over and tighten from pain.

She was stronger than anyone I had ever known. I wish I had told her that. I wish with every fiber of my being.

Know

Stiffness and pain is my greeting as I awaken and stand. I stretch and try to pop my back. I am hoping for the pain to subside.

After I relieve myself, I take a couple of aspirins from the medicine cabinet and down them with a glass of cold water.

I forego coffee and my morning cigarette and bring my notebook to the table where I can begin to write.

There is no living now; there are only the restless memories to keep me awake. These memories are razors, cutting away the surface of a much bigger wound. I cut myself with words in the same way the doctors cut away the tissue from my mother’s leg. I hope for the infection to heal.

My mother never knew this, she never knew the hurt with which I wrote. Every pang, every discomfort, every edging knife in my side was written down. I have a library of anguish and intention. I have catalogues of guilt and disdain.

I am dirty and disheveled as I place pen to paper. I am incomplete and narrow minded. I am bitter in thought.

She wakes up and puts her arm around me. I kiss her on the forehead. “Good morning,” I say, still groggy from sleep.

She nestles her head into my shoulder and muffles out, “Good morning.” Her voice is smoky and sweet.

We shower together outside under a tree. The water from the bag that hangs from a branch is cool and refreshing as we rinse away the previous day.

“I meant what I said last night,” she says, probing my eyes.

“I did too.”

A smile spreads across her pristine face, glittered in drops of water. “I meant it and I won’t take it back.”

“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” I reply, sheepish and too aware of my nudity.

“You’re like a lost puppy and I want to be the one to show you a home.”

I’m taken back by her words, they’re innocent and naive. I have to admit that I’ve never heard anything more comforting. I look to her and let myself go. “Do you remember when I told you that I’m afraid of living?”

“Yes,” she answers.

“What I meant was that I am afraid of love. I’m afraid of what it can do and where it can lead.”

“There’s no reason to be afraid of love,” she says.

“Yes there is,” I counter. “There is the fear of loving and losing. There is the fear of getting so involved with it that it would kill you if it were to go away.

I’m afraid if I give in and let myself love you fully, you will go away like everyone else that I’ve loved.” I look at the damp ground beneath our feet.

“You can’t be afraid of loving,” she replies. “People pass on. People die. But, sometimes, people live long, happy lives together.”

“I know that too, but I’ve never experienced it. My mother died, my grandmother died, my aunt died. I loved each of them unconditionally. I just don’t want to lose someone again.”

She touches my face, placing her hands around my cheeks and stares into my eyes. “I’m not going to leave you so soon. We have too much to talk about.” She pulls me close and kisses me deeply.

For this moment, we are together. We are what all people crave. We are love. I’ve always found it funny when I’ve heard people say that they saw stars when they kissed their lovers. I found it funny up until this very moment when it happened to me too. 

We hold each other, wet and nude and kiss. I brush her hair out of her face and pull her closer. Our skin touches and slips. Our hands slide easily on one another, tracing lines along our bodies, finding adventure within our touch.

Her skin glistens in the morning light. I love her skin, they way it smells, the softness of it, how it radiates. I think of her skin far too much.

“You know, we’re going to have to go get breakfast this morning. The ice in the chest is gone,” she says.

“Do you know of any place close?” I ask.

“There’s a restaurant a few miles away. I remember the food was pretty good the last time I ate there.”

Once we’re dressed, we pack up in her car and drive to the restaurant. It’s still early and the wind from the window feels good against my face.

The winding road curves through forest and past lakes and lush swamps. It narrows and bends, showing only the best scenery life has to offer.

She tightens her face as she rubs her neck, holding the steering wheel with one hand.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

“My neck is stiff,” she says.

“Has it been giving you problems?”

“Not until just now,” she replies. She looks back to the road in a panic, swerves hard as a horn sounds off. She corrects and turns the wheel the other way, narrowly missing an oncoming car.

My hands are white, gripping the dashboard as I clench my teeth and press firmly against the floorboard with both feet.

Both of her hands are on the steering wheel now, her brow is wet with perspiration. She is wearing an expression of terror. Her breath is rapid, almost gasping as she slows the vehicle.

We’re too horrified to speak. We sit in silence, waiting for our blood to calm.

She flares her nostrils and breathes deeply, slowly. I can see her heart slowing in her heaving chest. We look at one another thankfully, knowing how close we came. Another inch and it would have…

I brush her hand. “We’re fine. Everything is okay.”

She shakes off the panic and stutters. “We’re fine,” she says, almost not believing. She pulls the car into the dirt parking lot of the restaurant and lets it idle as she stares off through the window. “I think you should drive back after we’ve ate.”

“I will,” I say. “Now let’s just get something to eat and we can drive back and pack up our stuff from the cabin. I think I’ve had enough adventure for one weekend.”

“Yeah,” she replies, stumbling on the word.

Listen

Sometimes, when I write, there is no pen or paper. There is no apartment or outside world. There are just the images and voices that play in my mind like echoes bouncing off my cranium.

Occasionally, I am offered reprieve. I can focus on the paper, see the writing, acknowledge the lines and fibers, the way the notebook has been stitched together and find peace.

The process is suffering. It takes a hold of me and refuses to let go until the very last line is written. It is a curse to remember life in this way. It is too real, too intimate the way it lays itself out in my mind. It is a curse and I wish it would end.

At times, I wish I would end as well.

I need to get out, I need to walk away from this for a while and gather my thoughts. I need respite.

In the bath, I shower too long, dry myself too long and stare in the mirror for too long. I take my time with everything. Grooming takes an eon; getting dressed, an eternity. I want to savor every minute, live every solitary second.

I am too much of myself and need to let go, but still, the satchel is over my shoulder and I am out the door.

The pebbles shuffle beneath the soles of my shoes, scraping, dragging, and fleeting as I walk along the boulevard, away from my home. I pay careful attention to every crack in the sidewalk, every grain of sand that has accumulated from the removal of snow over the past winter.

My shoes are too broken in, almost to the point where they are just broken. My pants aren’t as clean as they once were. My skin is aged and as worn as everything else I own. I have seen too much.

I stop and glare at the sky. I grit my teeth and clench my jaw as tightly as it will go. I want to bring the blood, I want to taste its salty resolve, and I want to feel it wash away at the inside of my mouth.

Blood is an acquired taste, it only agrees with the palette when all other options are spent. It’s red and luscious, as ripe as an apple burst from its core before you discover some slithering thing living inside. It is better to spit it out than to let it fester inside.

I catch the bus at the end of the street and pay my fare. At the very back, I take a seat and rest my head in my hands. My hair slips through my fingers, the sweat lets it slide. The smooth leather of my bag rests against my leg and I sigh. I sigh for all that has transpired. I sigh out of sorrow and desperation. I sigh because that is all I remember how to do.

We could have been driving for hours, but we weren’t. The cabin was only a few miles away. She threw up after eating and I wiped her face with a rag from the glove compartment. Her face is pale and sunken. Her eyes are large and staring.

“I just need to lie down,” she says. “A nap might do me good.”

“I’ll get you back to the cabin and you can sleep for as long as you want,” I say, almost pleading with her sickness.

The scenery is unrealistic and vague as I drive back. I can’t be bothered with beauty. The road is but a blur of expectation and yearning. There is no longer softness in its view, or promise in its vivid details.

“My hands are numb,” she says.

“Hold on,” I say.

There is nothing now except for the mile markers counting down to solace. I expect her to vomit again, but she never does. I expect her to cry out in sickness, but I don’t know if she has the tears.

She is squinting from the sun, trying to shield her eyes from its painful brightness.

“Maybe I should take you to the hospital,” I say.

“I just need to lie down,” she repeats.

I want to reach out and hold her hand, but it’s disposed about her abdomen while the other is over her eyes. I want to eat away her nausea and spit it out like so much waste. I want to brush away her tears.

She is shaking as we pull onto the road that leads back to the cabin.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t get you to the emergency room?” I ask.

“I just want to fucking lie down!” she shouts.

I bite my lip and pull up next to the cabin.

The bumps in the road are but potholes left by rain and flood. They remind me of life. In a way, they are as comforting as a caress. I look up to see how far we’ve gone. I look at the flash of a sign, green and spiraling away; close to the bridge over the river, even closer to downtown.

Death can happen at any moment. It is relentless and uncaring. When it comes, it is swift and sure. It is difficult to imagine all of the people dying at any given moment. It is difficult to stay alive when so many others fall into the waiting hands of oblivion.

Inside

My grandmother took weeks to die. The nurses kept her on strong drugs to help her deal with the pain. In her last days, she wasn’t the same woman I remembered. She was lucid and dreaming even when she seemed to be conscious.

Her eyes took on a different kind of shine. They were narrow and glassed over as if she were staring off into the hereafter.

I couldn’t bring myself to see her as she died. She wasn’t the same; she was a stranger embarking on a journey that I could not follow.

I remember how pale she was, how the whiteness of her face revealed the veins beneath the surface of her skin. She would look at things that weren’t there, mention people that had died years before.

Early in the morning, she got up from bed and took a shower. She washed her hair and bathed as if she were getting ready to go out. She put on her robe, combed her damp hair and lay on the bed.

There were no death throws or pain. There was no anguish or sorrow. She simply stopped living.

When I went to see her before my family called the hospital to send an ambulance, I was transfixed with the peacefulness on her face. She was like an alabaster statue, carved by the most graceful hands to ever hold a chisel. The veins in her face had receded, leaving only statuesque beauty. She looked years younger than she actually was. She looked as if she had finally found her way.

No more pain, I thought as I looked upon her, no more pain.

“I love you,” I say as she lies down on the bed.

“I love you too,” she mouths the words.

I can see the disorientation on her face. It reminds me of my grandmother. I panic and pray. I don’t know who I am praying to, I don’t believe in those things anymore. But there is comfort in repeating the words in my head.

Over and over again, I plea, “Let her be all right.”

There is a gentle breeze coming in through the window. It caresses her face and sends a lock of hair across her brow and down along her cheek.

I imagine the radiance of her eyes, how they looked at me when she said that she loved me. No truer words have I ever heard spoken.

Her breath is shallow, but steady. Her skin is pale, but soft. Her chest ascends with every breath and descends back again into rest.

I stare at her hands, how delicate they are. They are hands made for tying ribbons and braiding hair. They are hands made for holding and gentle caresses. They are hands alive and filled with blood.

I watch the streets flutter by as the bus makes its way through the outskirts of the city. I hold my satchel tightly, feeling the leather beneath my fingertips as they turn white from the pressure.

I always grip too tightly.

I held the photo album the same way when I picked it up from the table in my aunt’s living room. I pressed it against my chest and gripped it tightly as if I were holding on for dear life.

The smooth surface was cool against my exposed chest as I watched the paramedics take her body away.

I had just talked to her the night before and asked if she would like to get something to eat. She had said that she had a headache, but maybe, if she felt better in the morning, we could go get breakfast together.

She decided to go to bed early that night. She never even had time to put on her sleeping gown. She passed out from a clogged carotid artery and died, nude and alone.

We all die alone. No one can hold our hand and guide us to the end. No one can give your mind ease when you pass. No one can whisper away the fear of those last few seconds.

Death is so simple. There is no way to argue with it. It is the only absolute.

Her eyelids tighten into thin lines as the pain hits her. She leans over and throws up next to the bed, splashing vomit against the worn floorboards.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” I say as I pick her up effortlessly into my arms.

She doesn’t protest.

I buckle her into the seat and close the door. I am driven and in the moment. I start the car and it roars to life as I hit the accelerator. It throws up dust as the tires spin on the dirt road.

I’m driving faster than I should, sliding on the dirt and gravel as I negotiate along the windy road and out onto the highway.

She is pale and sickly as I look over to her to make sure she is still with me. Her mouth is hanging slack and her breath is labored. She is like the ghost of a memory fading away into mist.

I floor the gas pedal and the engine revs. I grit my teeth until I can feel the intensity in my jaw. I am this moment.

Voices

I never get what I need; only what I can handle. Maybe it is better that way. Maybe I only think I need more. My life is curious that way.

I often wonder how much more Life thinks I can handle.

If I had had one more moment with my aunt, I would have told her that she made me stronger, that she had shown me what I was capable of. No matter how many times I break down, I always get back up. But there is comfort in the knowledge that I can leave it all behind, that if it becomes too much, I can lay down forever and none of it will ever have substance again.

Her funeral was quiet. The viewing was solemn and the music was sorrowful. I couldn’t look at her in the casket. I couldn’t bring myself to look at her for a final time. I didn’t want to see what death had done to her.

I shook inside and watched as the rows of people paid their respects. I sat silently and hoped it wasn’t real. I placed my hands on my knees and stared ahead. I thought of redemption. I thought of grace. I thought of immortal bliss and confounded pleasure. I thought I, too one day die.

From my gut, I held the tears. I pushed them down as far as they would go; I imprisoned them within myself for another time.

I bore her body and placed it in the hearse. I felt the weight inside along with the others. I wept inside.

The bus is quiet as it makes its final stops. I can hear the hum of the tires and the shifting of automated gears as the driver accelerates, but the sounds have no meaning. The seats are as comfortable as I could ever hope for. And the smell isn’t as bad as it could be.

“Ninth street, final stop,” the driver announces.

I slowly stand. My knees are stiff. My hands are shaking. I stare at the floor as I exit and watch my shoes scuff against the worn rubber walkway. I look back at the driver before I step out. He smiles and nods.

“Have a good day,” he says.

“You too,” I reply.

Her breath is so faint that I have to stare at her chest to make sure she is breathing. She seems so helpless, so utterly alone in the moment. I wonder if she is sleeping or just has her eyes closed to keep the sun’s glare at bay.

The exit to the hospital is clearly marked and I merge onto the off ramp. The tires squeal as I take the corner too fast, but they finally grip and I’m that much closer to getting her to safety.

I want to kiss away the illness from her skin. I would eat her pain and swallow it down my throat and into my stomach where the acid could dissolve it away. I would release her from the suffering like a masochist to their prey. I would.

There is very little of her now as she breathes, as she exhales, as she sits prone with her head slouched down in her chest.

There is despair in the blackening clouds overhead. They roll upon themselves like the waves upon the ocean, surging in intensity. I value this. For with the blackening clouds comes thunder and explosions of lightning to escort the eventual downpour.

When the heavens open wide and bathe me with their damp, coursing fingers, so delicate and fierce, it is like rebirth. The thunder brings retribution. The lightning lights the way for its coming. The rain washes the filth from my soiled bones.

The last conversation I had with my aunt was about death. I considered the fact that you leave this world much in the same way that you came into it. Living is circular and ever encompassing. Death is only as valuable as the life you chose to lead.

There is comfort in knowing that she was proud of her life. She valued every moment. She did what she thought was right. She was a good woman.

I wish I could say the same about myself. I would love to look back at my life when I’m dying and be comforted with what I’ve done. But I’ve given so little because I’ve always been afraid of losing what little I’ve had.

Maybe there’s opportunity to make change happen. Maybe life will give me that one last wish before I go into the beyond. Maybe I’m not as dead as I thought.

I think of her as I walk, of how she gave me a chance when I gave her so little to work with. They say that some souls are just worth saving. I think she believed that more than I.

With the first drops of rain that dampen my face, I think of what I have done in my life and what I could have done to have given it worth.

I hold my breath and wonder what it would be like to never breathe again. I want to purge this from myself; I want to excrete it like so much rancid meat. I pick the scabs to watch them bleed.

“She’s sick, she needs help,” I yell at the nurses in front of the emergency room.

I open her door and she hangs slack from the seatbelt. I can still see her breathing. I can still pray to whatever god that will listen. I can hope it isn’t too late.

The nurses run in all directions. Someone brings out a stretcher. Someone screams for assistance.

I can hear my heart beating in my chest. My head is pounding. My legs are weak.

She is rushed away from me faster than I can register. Someone helps me inside, thinking me to be faint. Maybe I am. I can’t remember.

They asked me what happened. I tell them of how my mother died. I beg them to heal her. They help me to a chair in the waiting room and ask for any contact information. I tell them my grandmother is gone. I tell them that she bathed and dressed for her funeral. They send someone out to her car that I left idling at the entrance.

“What’s your name,” someone asks, shining a light in my eye.

“My aunt died. We talked of death before she went. I’m not happy with who I am,” I say.

I dream so suddenly that it makes me smile. I wonder if they can tell. I feel hands all over me. I welcome their touch. I want to kiss her one last time. I want to kiss her and make it go away.

I can see the bridge in the distance. I revel at the support beams that dart off into the sky; I revel at their bravery for going so high into the storm. I yearn to be like them. I wish I were stronger.

My footfalls slap against the sidewalk. Tiny splashes erupt as I go, releasing droplets into the air as I begin to run. Life is speeding by.

Faster now and I’m almost there. I can taste the sweetness of the rain on my tongue as I pant. I can hear the birds crying. They are singing to me.

The satchel is on my back, beating against my cold, shivering skin through my drenched, soggy coat. My hair is laid out against my face and it blurs my vision. I am closer now.

“I love you,” she says.

“I love you too,” I whisper the words.

“I will never leave you.” She stares into my eyes.

I cry out of desperation. I hold out my hands, desperately trying to grasp at her. She is filtering away. She is like the clouds after they have given away to mist.

The rain is like splinters. There is pain from how fast it falls. It is like darts in my skin and it quickens my pace.

The smell is horrendous like ammonia and alcohol. My eyes sting from the odor. There is someone in scrubs standing above me, waving something under my nose. I recoil and my eyes are wide.

“What…” I begin to ask.

“You fainted,” the nurse replies. “You’ll be all right now.”

“Where is she?” I try to stand, but the nurse gently pushes me back into the chair.

“Just rest,” the nurse says. “She’s stable. The Doctor is doing everything that he can.”

“What was wrong with her?” I ask.

“She suffered an aneurysm. She’s very lucky to be alive.”

“Is she going to be okay?” I ask.

“It’s too early to tell.”

Somehow, the bridge is inviting. It’s as if it were waiting for me. The rushing river down below claps out my name as it surges from the storm. The rain is less painful as it licks at my flesh. I can feel the ache in my bones. I feel rusty from the cold, damp air.

I lick my lips and taste the rain and sweat and sourness that cling to them. I wonder if she can taste it too. I hold my breath and wonder what it would be like to never breathe again.

Lightning tears through the sky and is followed by loving thunder. They are one and the same no matter whether they are just simple reactions of a much larger source. They need one another like leaves need the wind. They are the same as I am.

“She’s in a medically induced coma,” the Doctor says. “We’re transferring her to the city hospital where they are better suited for this type of condition.”

“What are her chances?” I ask.

“It’s too early to tell,” he replies.

The ringing in my ears is as nails. The nails are dirty and scraping. The scraping is of gloveless hands. The hands are my own. I am becoming inside of myself. I know who I am.

Silence prevails on the bridge as the wind and rain scrape my face. There is a shudder somewhere deep. It screams my name.

I lap at the drops from the sky with upturned face toward the pissing clouds. I am something now. The thunder is my voice. The lightning is my sight.

From over the railing I peer into the dark, rapid water swirling, capping and white with rage. The wind is howling and fierce. My heart is beating through the fibers inside. I’m afraid of living.

I slip on the sidewalk as I walk back and forth, displaying myself for the rushing water below. I can finally see it now. I can see the end beginning. It hurts to stare into the void for too long, but the impermanence is nice. Cold chills run up along my arm, numbing the nerves, quieting the turmoil. There is blue fire in the sky.

The storming heavens are glorious and fill me with wonder. I can barely feel anymore. I hear. I throw my fists into the air. I am quiet inside.

The feeling is growing, coursing stronger in my belly, holding me back, pushing me forward.

The cracking, rumbling light is a miracle. The miracle is inside me. I am my own and forever. I am forever, Amen.

The tears are drowning me, making me rasp on my own tongue, filling my mouth with the world’s waste. I can hear her breathing. Can she hear my heart?

I am going away inside.

Her face is soft as I stand above her. She looks comfortable in the sheets, somehow brave in unconsciousness. Her mouth tells me that she is going somewhere I cannot follow.

I hold her hand in my own. She is warm, warmer than I am.

I press my cheek to her mouth to feel her breath on my wisp over me. I kiss her forehead. I try to kiss away the sleep.

The Doctors don’t know any more than they have already told me. I can’t remember what they have said.

The room is stale and sterile. The smell of bleach hangs in the air like a silent killer. The air I breathe is dead. I want to hide from this. I want to tear it away and give in.

 If I could just capture a moment with her; if I could see her eyes smiling at me; if I could inhale the worst parts, I would be complete.

I just need a single moment. One more moment is all I ask. I would make it better. I would do whatever you wanted me to. I would kill this for you. I would die for just a single moment.

The machines hum in cold reproach. They stutter out of their electronic mouths. They tell me that she is holding on. They tell me she is alive. They tell me to remain silent, to stand steadfast and alone.

I tell god to spare her. I tell whatever god that will listen. I am corruptible and desperate. I stand on my own two feet and watch her sleep in oblivion.

Souls

I am battered and drowning in my clothes. They smother me, keep me inside myself. I have forgotten who I used to be. Maybe I was someone once, but no more. My hands are shaking and I’m living in this right now. There is contempt coming from the thunderclouds above. They mock me in my despair.

From my pocket, I feel the rough edges of paper, still, miraculously dry. I must give her this. I must put it on her pillow for if she ever wakes, she should remember.

I slip on the sidewalk and catch myself before I fall. The rain pelts me, batters my skin and blurs my vision. The hospital is a few blocks away. I am drenched. I am alive. I have one more journey to make.

The nurses don’t pay me heed as I walk through the doors and pass them. I walk by rooms full of sick and weary souls. I can smell their sickness, taste them dying. They don’t look my way. I am the ghost they are becoming.

My shoes squeak on the floor as I pass bleach white beds. I am clean; the rain has washed away the rough edges. It has left me drowned in thoughtlessness.

The only sound beyond my smearing shoes is my rasping breath. Time is of essence. Time is a thought. Time is always fleeting. Time is an illusion.

I close my eyes and enter her room. When I look out beyond my swollen lids, her bed is there and she is still and motionless in the storm that screams through the evening sky beyond the hospital walls. I hold her hand for a second and a tear comes to my eye. From my pocket, the crisp paper comes easily.

I can feel the electricity in the air. I can taste the thunder outside.

I open the paper, unfolding it slowly, unfurling thoughts spread carefully along unlined pulp. The words are shallow, but have meaning. They smell of honesty and regret. They reek of the passage of time.

Her breath is slow.

So is mine.

Spit is thick and putrid in my mouth. It clings to my tongue and I swallow it down to clear my throat.

I place my hand on her bed for support. I clear my throat again and lick my lips. I read slowly at first, the tears are sweet as I recite what she wrote.

I can taste the arsenic on my lips.

It’s not as bitter as tears.

The screams awaken me from delusion. Hollow tendrils of fear and contempt beckon closer on frail wings sewn together by veins and dignity. I hear them scream at night when no one else is listening; when no one else is close enough to hear. Their hands are cold and rigid, coursing over my memories. Blank faces howl back and I am nothing anymore. I try to stand, to shake them off, but they clasp firm on my anguish. They know just where to prod.

Listen and you could hear them too. They live just inside of you, under your skin in the subtle, soft spots where you wouldn’t think they could breathe. Their voices, their fucking voices are screams. Their hands are the needles that puncture. Their souls are burning hatred.

We all live in this. Coldness seeps in when you’re not looking. When it goes away, where will you be? Hands shake through the piss for warmth: converging on your ideas of blasphemy. I’m still inside. I can see you now. It’s exactly what it is that they want you to believe it to be. There is no idea of today. There is only tomorrow.

You are right now. You are my forever. In you, I see my own light. In you, I am someone. Only you believe. Only you exist right now.

I am contemptible when I’m alone. I am alone right now. I hear the harps playing.

Maybe I need the punishment of this. She seems to be the only one that would care. She is the only living thing that is capable of giving me a chance. She is my poetry. My heart yearns for the touch of her lips.

I feel movement, subtle, yet sure.

I look at her lying there as the lightning flashes through the window, casting a halo above her brow. I hold my breath and wait. Nothing remains.

“I love you today and tomorrow,” I say, dropping my gaze to the floor.

I feel a finger grace my hand. I am sure.

“With every new day, you bring me closer,” I continue.

A little stronger now, her hand brushes mine, for this, I am sure.

“When I first saw you, I was afraid. I didn’t want to let you in. I wasn’t prepared to let anyone in. I wasn’t myself.”

Her lips part, dry, chapped.

There are whispers coming from the ghosts in the other rooms. I can’t make out what they are saying.

“I never knew I could feel this way. I never knew how close I could come to ending it all. I never knew how much I could love.” The spit is thick on my teeth.

Slowly, her mouth closes and opens again like she is whispering.

“You have to understand that I just couldn’t let myself slip away. I couldn’t let it happen again. But now I know I was wrong. I should have told you sooner,” I slip on the words.

Her tongue touches her lips and she breathes.

“If I had only known, maybe I would have tried harder, tried to make myself come around sooner. If only I had known…”

She swallows. Her throat rises to allow for the movement.

“I didn’t want the world to take you away too. I couldn’t have survived that,” I say. “Before I came here, I tried to make it all go away, but I saw the words I had written you.

I found the satchel you bought me and I found what you wrote me. It was exactly the way I feel. I didn’t know that you knew me so well.

I read it over and over again after I left you here. It kept me alive. But the Doctors didn’t know if you would ever come out of it. I felt so alone especially after I read what you had written. You know me better than myself.

I love you.”

The last line from her writing comes so easily from my lips.

Live the coldness away.

“I love you too,” she says.

Stronger now, she grows stronger silently inside. She is. So am I.

“I’ll love you forever,” I say as she opens her smiling eyes.