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7 1 6

Beneath their beautiful eyes

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23 0 23

On Reviewing

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8 0 8

Perilous Presence

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A six petal rose

I can’t believe I’m doing this, he thought wryly. If someone was filming , they could make a straight-to-tv, midday movie from this tripe. With a smile, he shook his head slightly and pulled the first petal from the long-stemmed rose in his hand. It was a yellow rose, chosen not because of preference for colour, but because it was wilting and had been marked down for quick sale at the florist. Frugality was not a part of it either, he had simply chosen not to waste a healthy rose on what he was about to do.

He was looking out over the ocean from a cliff edge high above the frothy white  mess of wave meeting rock. It was a long drive to get here, but the location had come instantly to mind the moment he decided what he was going to do. Isolated, unblemished by human touch, and windy enough to let nature bite him while he admired her beauty.

He placed the rose petal on his upturned fingertips and stretched his arm out over the edge. An up-draft from the sea below quickly grabbed the petal from his hand and carried it out toward the horizon.

“She loves me.”

First contact, shy smiles. Eyes meeting in glances of ever-increasing length. Cheeky grins, playful jests, fingertips stretched to touch for the want of touching. …


The second petal came away from the flower, he thought it offered more resistance than the first, but it was captured by the ocean breeze just as readily.

“She loves me not.”

First cracks, fears spoken. Worries planted, differences sprouting. Words recited, well meaning, true meaning, hands still held for want of gripping. …

The first petal was lost to his eye now and the second yellow fragment had fallen straight to slide and tumble its way down the cliff face toward the water. A third petal sat on his outstretched hand, moving in circles, caught in an eddy above his palm. He blew toward it until it began to fall.

“She loves me.”

Flowers blooming, smiles warming. Fingers clasped when not running through hair. Laughter resounding, hot breath on bare necks. Heart stopping words whispered in ears tensed and waiting …

He had closed his eyes and was smiling, arm straight out in front of him as the wind grabbed his hair and flapped the folds of his long sleeved t-shirt.  Without opening his eyes, he plucked another petal from the remnants of the yellow rose. He felt the the wind lift it from his fingertips.

“She loves me not.”

Panic growing, worries taking root in fertile soil. Soft skin flinches from attempts to touch. Words spoken, by rote, meaning lost to repetition. Labels used for sake of labels. …

His eyes were closed and arm still outstretched, but the corners of his mouth had fallen with the last petal, leaving his lips compressed in a thin line. His arm fell slowly to his side and he looked down in time to see the yellow petal’s flight brought down violently in the a puff of sea spray. Only two wind-crumpled petals remained on the rose, and that soon became one when his fingers deftly plucked another.

“She loves me.”

Perfection. Uttered in disbelieving gasps of simultaneous ecstasy. Lucky, blessed, gifted, and loved. A warming connection even when hearts met distance. Perfection, lived and believed. …

He was smiling again, but his eyes were open now and the lack of light in them gave away his smile’s lie. Gaze fixed on the final petal struggling to remain attached to the decrepit rose, he tossed the entire thing over the edge, watching it plummet toward the rocks below.

“She loves me not.”

Distance manufactured, voices muted, whispers silenced. Cracks sprouting forests, words spoken known for lies, worries carpeting fields of green, brown now from lack of light. Drop outs, drop off, drop. …

“She loved me not.”

His face had split into a delirious rictus as he looked at his empty palms. He shifted his gaze to the female body at his feet.

“The flower says you loved me not.”

He kicked the corpse from the ledge and dived off the cliff before the body was halfway to the rocks below.

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5 0 5

The Path to Purpose

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8 0 8

Finding my own luck

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4 0 4

Moontide

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10 0 10

little things v1

I am so very little,
these words and sentences are dwarfish
in the shadow of phrases turning like rivers
swift and deep into the mind,
a current into the heart.
yet I am not but little,
so little I must be:
these are my little things.

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A Toast for Your Wedding

the two of you make me want to believe in love. you’ve told me how you make each other feel, and by god, that’s great, but hearing it is one thing. i want to feel it. i want to believe it. i need to believe it.

i want to be believe that people are able to love despite distance and appearances and every other petty thing that comes in the way of really, truly knowing and appreciating someone. i want to believe that love transcends all boundaries and is an all-encompassing, unapologetic force that wrecks cities and moves mountains and shakes the ground. i want proof, proof that love is a natural disaster separating the earth beneath our feet. i can’t possibly know or believe or sing the praises of love without that. i need to be able to stand up passionately and push over chairs in a fit of rage in the middle of a dinner party because other people just don’t understand what i’m talking about.

love has never been all-consuming with or for me. i’ve never wanted to spend the rest of my life with someone because i felt like i would perish the instant they left my side. i’ve never needed to hear someone’s voice to know that somehow, the world was still turning. i’ve never relied on anyone else for comfort in my darkest hours that i could not provide to myself.

all i’ve known of love is the fleeting moments, like waking up before the person lying next to you does and feeling that quivering smile creep up your face because god damn, they are beautiful. like kissing the eyelashes of someone who you’ve just met, although you swear you could ghostwrite their entire life biography because the way they look at you through those eyelashes is something that only you can dictate. like running your fingertips along the bare skin of your lover, tracing out words and promises you wish you could keep, knowing that they’ll never be able to translate your touch.

i imagine that in those moments i’m falling in love, i’m feeling love, i’m knowing what love is and what its favorite color is and how it likes its eggs and if it will like it better if i wear the floral skirt or the jeans that make my body look like it’s good enough to be eaten breakfast off of. those moments fade quickly, too quickly, and i’m left again with just the uncontrollable want that no person or thing has ever managed to suffice.

in my experience, love is the most beautiful person at the party, the same person who kept its lips closed when i introduced myself. i found love alone in a darkened room, moonlight illuminating its profile. so many times i tried to initiate a conversation. i bought this dress because i heard that you adore the color, love. or hey love, did you hear that so and so is playing at the so and so because i know you’re into their last album. despite my attempts, love turned on its heel and walked through the doorway toward a larger concentration of people. at the most, i’ve overheard it’s hushed whisper with another person in another room, where i can hear it’s voice but not the words. i just want to stand on top of the catering table, one foot on the hors d’oeuvres and the other in the punch bowl, and scream i shaved my legs for you, love! why won’t you notice me? yet, when i gaze longingly at love across the room with my back against the wall, we make eye contact. love stares me for a moment and finally acknowledges my presence with the slightest start of a smile before walking out the front door, its hand interlaced with another.

i want nothing more than to believe you when you say that love is an earthquake strong enough to end a european empire, but i’m sitting alone on a beach in california, mistaking the aftershock for grains of sand rumbling beneath my feet.

please never stop feeling the tremors. please never ever let love leave the party with someone who will never call it back or appreciate it or make it soup and sandwiches when its sick and watch terrible movies you can’t stand but you watch anyway because love wants to. please, for me, for all of us, hold on to that.

congratulations.

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8 0 8

The Beholder

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