Steve

Has anyone ever loved? I don’t know if these flesh and bones beings even can. I have seen so many, believed so many, trusted none, never, not one. I have no counterpart. No one like me. I am a woman without a husband, a heart without a hope, a dream that never became a memory, a life that never breathed. I am Rachel though my heart breaks like Leah’s. I am the widow at the window, the woman sneaking her water at the late hour. I am a lesson to be learned, a dreamer never, a thinker ever. I research and gather, I study and devour.
I remember only the heat of your skin. I remember only the shape of your eyes. I remember only your legs your hair your lips your hands. I only remember the shape of you the warmth you gave. I remember only you in the light of the forever we will be apart.
I fell down again and I never wanted to fall down again. He has eyes like skies and I want to tell you two decades is just enough to even look again. I want to tell you I recovered enough to do it, but I didn’t want to and so I won’t. I won’t forget and I won’t remember and I won’t try and I won’t do this again. I’ll pretend it doesn’t hurt like I’m dying. And I promise I will not cry. I promise I will never be anything but what I am. I will walk and walk until my legs fall off but I will not do this again.

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Grief

“For fools rush in where angels fear to tread”–Alexander Pope

There is a black band of mourning wrapped around my heart. I think sometimes I might remove it, slice through it, tear it from its place. Perhaps a razor worked under, a swift slice, a flick of the wrist and it will all be over.

I think of the heart it encircles, a tiny fist sized muscle of limited ability. It cannot think, it cannot reason; it beats and bleeds and breaks.

I think of Monet and his willows, weeping for dead soldiers. I think of Frida and her jarred baby, killed by its own womb. Models that cannot object to being painted. Symbols that cannot speak. I have been only the hope of expression, the bound heart with its purposeless emotion. The nothing.

Here we stop. In silence. No beating no remembering no thinking. Here we cease pulsating with dreams undreaming, memories forgetting, the end unwriting back to its beginning. Full circle the black circle remains. Intact, unbroken, lonely and unyielding.

There is a black band of mourning wrapped around my heart. I think sometimes I might remove it, slice through it, tear it from its place.

I Am Too Quiet Daily Prompt–Melody

Melody

I have seen strange things, beautiful and odd things. I have heard the mirror remembering its past. The face that was once smooth and young has spoken too much too often. It has been seen too much. It is so tired of being seen.

My face is a constant song, a reminder of music, a controlled and contrived series of notes. I must say, I have done a bang up job of singing expression, feeling and attitude. No one even knows if they should dance or sigh or sing along.