If I could dream, it would be about you...

I have waited ever so patiently for this moment to arrive… nearly there, almost here! Breaking Dawn, the last installment of the Twilight Series by Stephenie Meyer, is only 6 days away! I have reread the three previous novels in anticipation, pondering endlessly the possible conclusions. Yet, be unfooled by these statements- my blatant bias for Edward is the guiding beacon by which my assumptions are made. If for some reason Meyer uses Bella as a means to reflect her own personal choices, {family for example} and were to pair her into the mundane human/werewolf coil- I think my heart may shatter. For me, it was always Edward.

Twelve days...

… feels more like a life time. Not that I miss the life I had been living, the in and outs of fourteen months, or nearly five years for that matter. The things I have learned, unlearned- purposely lost, tragically maimed. I packed my survivors, trapped tight in their brown corrugated tombs till the re-nesting can begin. Now is filled with waiting. I will soon have my little evil, the unmentionable, unrelated task of the eight hour day. I'll take what consolation is offered, pay the bills and buy Japanese stationary. I feel stalled with these long pent desires; I want to bake, to read, to visit for hours without regret. I want to hear music, view films, smell grass. I need to linger on thoughts, feed on physical contact, savor the moments. Everything new, everything wide- still miles from what I was expecting. In the next month I expect visitors, movie nights, board games, bike rides. For August- new books, birthdays, road trips, weddings… I hope I remember all the things before this, however unseemly, unlikely, unlike me. Again.

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.

Turning on the shower…

There are the feelings we have always felt, carried within, hurried without. Then there are the moments, choices- change that amplifies these ever-present pieces of ourselves. I think about editorials, I dream about conflict and sexual appreciation- but mostly I miss that which for now, I cannot have. Graduation steadily approaches, along with it stressful exams I cannot pretend to be prepared for- it all happened so slowly in all its quickness. I struggle to concentrate, enter word or phrase or paragraph here = translation, I miss him. I miss him. I want him. I am haunted by this phantom scent of him, these ghostly expressions, the gold in his terribly blue eyes. The sharp of a tooth that no longer matches its counter, the triangular outline of his thumbs. It feels like I am bleeding again…

Peace will arise and tear us apart...

This restless slumber had taken more than my wits from me. Heat at the rise of my chest, aching as it narrowed upward at my throat- I, strangled by ashes. My voice dry, “where do secrets go when they die?” “Where things you left behind wait to meet you again.” I sink into the drained cup beside me, no one seems to hear my words on the first try. "If I repeat," holding the cup- empty but for the moist tea bag and its seepings. I can wait one more day until the weeks have gone.

Amortentia...

I am exhausted by this tethering emotion. I think of him incessantly, my physical self desperate for this connection. I reach out in the darkness, I am alone. I knew that this feeling would stir inside me, I have been waiting… wanting. Nothing can tear my love from you. I am yours and yours alone.