Rainy Monday Blues

seaglass, find it at the beach, put it in a jar, or simply lay it on a plate on your coffee table

Truth always has this little habit of whispering back to me from the grave I put it in. Truth is, of all the things I could have been, the author/writer/blogger is the one that allows me to be anything and everything I always wanted to be.

The poet, the painter, the sculptured, the philosopher, the lover, the crier, the wounded, the healer, the loner, the forgiver, the runner, the yogi, the singer, the dancer, the ranted, the optimistic, the pessimist, the holy veil and the undertaker, the thinker, the creator, the eccentric, writing allows me to be all these things without ever having to leave the comfort zone of my keyboard. Fiction becomes non - fiction, non - fiction becomes, well, my genre of real life, and words become the beauty of the platform, as I carve away at life. Today I will make phone calls, write e - mails, make arrangements for the funeral, sign the death certificate, wipe the tears from beneath my black veil, and put my old life in the coffin just before they lower it into the ground, never wanting it to be rewarded with an eternal life. In between mouthfuls of air, I'll wipe away tears, and take note of the now unrecognizable mangled corpse of what once was. I'll hear the bantering slightly irritated note in the bird's voice outside my window, as he watches yet another drama production of my life pass before him.

The Ending of an Affair

(No, I am not having an affair, purely theatrical piece on this rainy Monday, after being soaked from my daily run, sneakers and thoughts both consummated with the mud)

The night I was torn from the pages of your life, you thought you left, but really, I had already left you. Your tears carved into my flesh, as you tried to hold the taste of my final kiss on your tongue. Snow was falling from the sky that night, as the holiness of your wants fell from your mouth, landing on my lips. Winter was always the hardest season, it left tracks in the snow of where we had been, a reason for someone to always find us. Every winter that passes I find a snowflake that reminds me of you, allowing it to melt on my tongue. The affair I dreamed of, well it was quite like this, I ended it, not you.

Yes, the snow doesn't fall anymore; you were the last snowflake that ever landed on my nose, as I stuck out my tongue, you evaporated on it. I watched you leave, felt your last touch beneath my sheets of pain, as the rain fell, and the frost in the air became you, became my deepest lose. It dropped to the ground in silence, my heart, as the train, your train, pulled away from the station. I took the diamonds from around my neck, and dropped them down the sewer. I dropped the ice of you. You thought you left, but, really, I had already left you....you just never knew