my own "short song"

his voice tells it so perfectly: "lo-fi/ ultrasound/ like a note you had to sit down to read"... somber and quiet, almost whispering while he tells her story. "you are not a morgue/ you are a factory of mudfights and beauty/ and if your assembly line goes on strike/ just negotiate/ and it will start working again"...

what began as clarity of thought, as crisp and cool understanding has devolved into emotional mess. it's late-night nausea and sobs that quake your body while you do your best to keep them silent because you know he too had a long day, and is now halfway to sleep. it's when your arm grazes his forearm, for no other reason than you can feel the veins there...and they feel strong. or when you catch yourself staring at his perfectly shaped skull... thinking about how it looked when it was so much smaller, soft, just a light covering of hair.

but you remember you have to get up in the morning and you keep those tears behind your eyes so no one else can see it, the anguish festering in your throat, the dreams of betrayal and gut-wrenching crumple that haunt you in your half-awake sleep and keep a vise-grip on your daytimes.

things to contemplate on the beach.

"graves are things we walk upon/ and must walk away from...
.../ we are missed."



(quoted enclosures the beauty of derrick brown)