I still read him sometimes. I go back to see if some of the magic I once experienced will be there. It is a fool’s errand. I have seen the man behind the curtain and know his words too well. I am no longer moved. I can only see the regurgitation of previous pieces, the shallow self-absorption. It is best to not look too closely, to be able to figure out how the trick is done as it taints every aspect, leaving me to understand all that I thought was talent was simply a con-man’s game of slight of hand. All just smoke and mirrors.

Write me
a
love song

Sing it
to me
in
my sleep
so that
it
will
become
apart
of my
dreams
and
I can
wake
with
a memory of
tenderness
I would
never allow
myself
during
my
waking life.

What if
I was
the one
who
could
make
you see?

What if
you were
the one
who
could
make
me scream?

What if
either
of
us
was
anything
to
the
other

Anything
other
than a
brief
exchange
of
fluttering eyelashes,
knowing smiles
and
missed
opportunities?

Brown leaves cascade through the air like confetti in a tickertape parade.  What is it we are celebrating?

The rain falls silently, pooling at my feet.  I wonder as the leaves swirl, is this just for me?

I close my eyes, breathe deep the damp air and think, Can I hold on to this just a moment longer?

I raise my hand to brush my hair out of my eyes and catch a leaf instead.  Yellow, orange, and red bleeding together and the leaf feels supple, alive between my fingertips.  

I stick it between the pages of the book I am reading, smiling.  A moment captured.

Meet me here, under the boughs of these trees. Let the leaves fall on us like rain as the wind kicks up and let the only sound be their rustling overhead and under foot. Don’t look at me with recriminations, don’t blame me for the change of seasons.

The deeper
hurt
is
not
being
lied to

It is
desperately
wanting
to
believe
that
which I
know
to be
a
lie.

Sometimes
I
break
my own heart.

the best
friends
are
not the
ones
who
love
us
because of
who we
are

they are
the
ones
who
love us
in spite
of
it.

Alone
but
not lonely

Content
but
not satisified

Longing
for
something
undefinable
but
not searching

The lies we tell ourselves can be more honest than the truth we cling to when they are whispered to us in dreams.

Sometimes, silence is all there is. Either I have nothing in my head or I lack the energy to form any kind of coherent response.

Sometimes, the silence is me filling up, taking everything you say in like water filling a pail. It will eventually overflow my own words mixing with yours pouring forth.

Sometimes, you fall silent and we sit two thousand miles apart each in our own world and we share the quiet.

I like the quiet.

I like the silence.

The space between the words cements us as friends, companions. Each able to just be in each other’s company with no intent or purpose.

Sometimes, it is just nicer to be silent together than apart.