one day, every day...

The chill spreads, heavy, unseen, surfacing to the touch. Reaching, the faintest contact, lingering there. Here. Soft light settled on newly native grasses. Mid June plagued be morning frost. A shift of leaves, to better view the coming sun. We are all dying for warmth, hungry for affections. How they loose themselves in the faintest breeze in hopes of being heard, of being found, of being sought after in the dark. Their sorrow song for comfort, a whisper in foreign tongue, dawn approaches.


She walks, left shoulder heavy, down the steps of the stoop. She fumbles through her red bag, overturning items to obtain a less obscured view. A wallet, she searches for a planner size billfold. In the distance a blue and green bus is slowing. In an chorus of grinding metal it stops, deflating noisily, doors opening- the driver steps out. In his black jacket, embroidered to match the exterior of the bus, no fumbling- reaches into his pocket and he lights a cigarette. Wallet retrieved, small card in hand she adjusts the weight of her shoulder bag and walks swiftly, knees tight with tension, chin high, her face slightly turned. She is looking for something, from her expression it can be seen that although what she searches for is not in sight, the faintest traces are passing, vaguely, inside her mind.

the breath that carried us into being...

The window is streaming blue light, the slates of the blinds peeking in slight gaps when fully closed. Old windows with clumsy paint smear, have loose fittings for the eager breeze. It exhales in a ruffle of sheer crimson, embroidered by machine in vertical waves. They crest on the edge of something unshakable and fall back in tow. Iron for heat, painted white like the petals of a fragile flower and hard as something so beautiful must eventually become to survive. I watch from the bed, this dance, in the cool light, how silent we may seem. As now I am only eyes, I gaze to them from one side of my nose. Sapphire, cornflower, darkest blue, like something frozen, like something new. One brow lifts at the indecency of their exchange, it feels like laughter. The shadowed cast peers upon the page. Oh, this generic font. Coffee stain, tea tinted and well loved- old even when barely used. Too much sun will increase serotonin at the expense of your best suit. Telephone ringing, bad news calls around. If all my greatest fears weren’t so willing to abandon fiction, we might have made it through this all right. Give up on grammar, let go of precedence- the things we say last will out last the breath that carried them into being. This is true like so many other things.