Writing

I dreamt

it was next year

everyone I loved was there

tall chairs

light work

not reality

everyone

perfect

I woke up and I felt his love

butterfly wings against my cheek

Driving home, nine at night.

I look up to stare at the stars,

But I can't tell the difference between the stars and satellites.

What a sad time,

50 fathoms crushing down 

Crashing waves on granite ground  

Whitecaps framed by fading sky 

High above  

On cliffs I lie

It followed him like a curse. Every step he took, the tick tick ticking of his heart echoed in the chamber of his ears, trailing him in the hallways, threatening to expose all that he was.

The clock is broken, it stopped ticking ten years ago, stopped counting how much time had passed. It is an old grandfather clock, wood of oak, and sculpted to perfection.

In a world of rose petal dawns

And freshly mowed lawns

And the warmth of a million suns

There lives a child

Meek and mild