up

You warm the bed with your life, and I travel slowly over a heavy-eyed path to awakening. The television is the first thing I hear. Too loud for morning voices talking nonsense about suicides and 90 pounds gone. It's softer in the bed, and your voice remains quiet. My mind travels towards clear--a slow journey it doesn't look forward to, and i don't blame it, i also fight reality. The air conditioner, set below freezing, gives the room that sea foam chill that you like, a chill that pushes us closer together in a bed that a thousand have slept in before us, a thousand sleepy heads detesting rational thought. I pull the covers over my shoulder and roll in your direction. The turn somehow shaking and dispelling the night. Here is where I usually sit up and study you,push your hair back and make sure you're still mine, but not today, and not since last week or a hundred tomorrows, because you're gone, and your not coming back. I'm up now, and the clarity of my loss and your death is back on the menu.

attachment?

I reach for her, my daughter, flesh of my flesh, our lives intertwined since her first breath, and although I touch her skin and feel her sweet hands I can't connect. I've never been able to feel more than the flesh. A thin transparent sheet--a shroud really, is shrink wrapped around my soul. There is nothing that has ever been able to penetrate it, not even her.

A very cliche post.

If I said the window in my hotel room, which by the way looks out over a busy freeway, was dirty, would you find that cliche? What if I said my heart was broken--2000 miles away from home and without my love? Yes, you probably would find both of those lines worn and without flavor, so instead, I'm going to tell you that the window is without streak or smear. the freeway is a grey masters line slashed across the earths pride, and of a heart i have none, just a head filled with sad dreary thoughts that were transfered to a young boy who had no defense against the pumped in negativity and loss of those around him.

A very cliche post.

If I said the window in my hotel room, which by the way looks out over a busy freeway, was dirty, would you find that cliche? What if I said my heart was broken--2000 miles away from home and without my love? I think that maybe i'll tell you that the window is without streak or smear. the freeway is a grey masters line slashed across the earth, and my heart, of a heart i have none, just a head filled with thoughts transfered to a young boy who had no defense against the pumped in negativity and loss of those around him.