The Last Time

The last time,
Our eyes caught

In the early morning haze,
And locked,
A gray-blue and a bright green,
As you touched me,
Deliberate.
For an instant,
One drawing in of both our breaths,
One moment of stillness,
One last time you saw me,

For real.

The spell broken,
As I looked down
And closed mine,
Out of shame.

XOXO

Hiatus

You said "hiatus" like there was something to tie me to the same place, the same space, the same point in time. Like you can tell a dog "stay." Like there was something worth staying for or coming back to.

I wanted to look around and see the same strange universe you live in so I would know what exactly you were thinking. I wanted to tell you, "I may love you, but I don't love you enough to atrophy." I wanted to believe that you were bipolar, as it seemed to be the only explanation for the abrupt Harvey Dent two-face turn.

Instead, as time passes, so do the reasons, the possibility of explanations, and even the desire to linger. In some places, a "hiatus" is nice-- Maui, the Virgin Islands, Fiji. For others, a break only means that things have now been broken. No traction, no ICU and no splints and bones.

XOXO

Hell Is A Place Called Not Knowing

It always feels like someone is leaving. Mostly, because someone usually is. It's like trying to have a relationship with an opening and closing door-- most of what you get is the breath of cold air right after the feeling of someone who has departed. You see the words "Enter" and "Exit," but they both start with "E" like "Ecstasy" and "Epiphany" and "Enabler" and "Excommunicate," and so you are confused and stay put, dancing from one foot to the other, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Apparently, the grass is always greener on the other side of that door, or so they say, so while some graze contentedly-- or, at least, pretending to be contented, like a woman exiting Barney's with an arm full of shopper's remorse and a decimated credit line-- that must mean that others are still waiting on the other side of the door, tapping their feet and checking their watches, waiting for the people who Just Can't Say No to come back.

D.A.R.E seemingly did too good of a job in some rural elementary schools-- at least, with the rigid refusing part, if not with the saying no to two of life's most fundamental and key elements to any sort of personal happiness. Because, after all, what is a good story without copious amounts of alcohol and a little weed? Boring, that's what.

And so, there's this little waiting room like something straight out of Purgatory for the people who are too sure that absolutely nothing is wrong to sit in and cool their heels and wait for an explanation to come back through that door; any sort of explanation will do, as long as it's not half-assed and holds more of the truth then most people are willing to give. It's a waiting room like that of an oral surgeon's, or a podiatrist, some office where lots of poking and prodding goes on and you know, you just KNOW you're going to be in a lot of pain, full of a self-righteous silence that barely covers the underlying tension of "Oh god, what have I done?" and "Oh god, what have YOU done?" And you're left staring at two words, two maddeningly heavy words weighted with implications that are far too large for you, you in your hurried, semi-frantic, holier-than-thou martyr's state to really even begin to understand...

So will it be "Enter," or "Exit"? Do you want off this ride, or are you going to wait one more turn of the merry-go-round before you finally decide to scrap it all and jump off? Or, are you ready to finally throw all your baggage (not, as was said with such fervent feminine finality, "it's not just baggage-- it's like excess luggage with the overweight fees and carrying charges,") down onto the floor of that place everyone is looking for called Home and announce, "Honey, I'm Home"?

Because this is not an endless revolving door. Someone who lets someone else who's not supposed to really be there in too many times is called a Push-over. And the next thing you know, Security is breathing down the back of your neck, saying, "Did YOU let him in? Did you really think this would end well, you poor stupid shit?"

And all you can say in response is, "You always go and I just wanted you to stay."

Ok. So I'll bite. What did I do?

XOXO