It's breakfast on Sunday when the recipe is cut by half and still-- leftovers. Friday night with drinks in bedrooms shared with paper friends and digital adventure. Buying two tickets so you can share the experience and somehow still standing alone with the extra in your pocket, unused and unwanted. Trying to not read too … Continue reading April 13 : A Lonely Little Way
fingers hover over keys storm clouds over a city so close-- almost touching fingertips to rooftops one drop, two, a million pour a story bounces off bricks throws itself into gutters drains to the sewer muddy mess lingers weeds sprout between the cracks but wildflowers take root too
Bed like a temple where only I am allowed to worship. Bed like a cloud from an oil painting so full and heavy. Bed like a hammock in paradise so quiet and cradling. I sink between the layers, and stretch in the deliciousness.
Too many of my days pass in dry blinks and blurred moments between phone calls, text messages, and the never-ending flash of a notification to remind me of one-more-thing To Do before I can be Done. I burn, I pine, I perish-- for when I was young and blonde and had yet to carve the wrinkles … Continue reading April 10 : On Adulthood
Typewriter Moon 