Super Saturday Title

Hello Drabblers!!

The title for this week is "The thing about you and me".

Enjoy writing!

The Trees Could Have Lived

She was head over heels for him, no question about that. It is not her fault that this was never going to happen. It is not her fault that the only idea she had about that situation was to write. So write him she did.

She wrote so many words. Line upon line. Page upon page. Pouring out her heart and soul. Begging for some response from him. You could have wallpapered Buckingham Palace with the letters she wrote to him. And the letters just kept coming. Day after day after day.

She could have just sent him a text.

It All Comes Down to This

It all comes down to this

Someone happy to see you when you arrive

A hand to hold while you pray

The kitchen occupied

And the bathroom sink is always wet

And there’s a stack of tires in the extra room

And you sit in patio chairs

It’s not choosing the sofa so much as laughing in the furniture store

Not choosing a movie so much as staying at the end of each night

Nowadays many couples prefer separate sinks

We are just excited to be brushing our teeth together

And that is what it comes down to, my friends

Empty Spaces...

It stings, I feel through the fog in my eyes. 

A single, hot and salty drop trails, 

sliding down my cheek leaving a path that cuts deeply. 

A torrent of bitter-sweet battles furiously behind my eyes, 

warring, struggling, pulling, and twisting. 

The thickness of my eyes works so hard to hold it back, to make it fake, 

to try and try to squelch the feeling that real is real, that there is an is. 

I try to harden my eyes, to fill them. 

I pull them shut hard, strong, fast, to hold them,

 to ignore the empty spaces inside me...  

Empty Spaces

The burner where the tea-kettle used to sit
It's empty now just like your heart
(You never loved me from the start)

The rectangle on the wall where our picture hung
It's blank now just like your mind
(I can't believe you thought I wouldn't find)

The hiking boots that you always hated
(They left dirt on your pristine floor)
You won't be sad they walked out the door

The air that moved when I spoke hello
Didn't you always want it still?
(Empty words, but silence filled)

When you come home tonight here's what you'll see:
Empty spaces instead of me

Empty Spaces

I said goodbye to her three years ago. I went to seek my fortune so I could marry her. When the pirates attacked, I didn’t bribe or blubber. I simply asked to live. When he asked me why, I answered honestly. “True love.” And I thought of her. And he let me live.

I can’t complain too much. I’m learning to fight and fence. Exploring the world of poisons and their uses. The time is full.

But every night when I am about to drift off to sleep, I think of her. And the empty space inside envelopes me again.

Changing Colors

We are a melting pot. We are. Mix all the colors in together. Don’t hold back and don’t be afraid.

The colors of our skin might not change but perhaps the color of our heart should. Or perhaps shall we move beyond color? Perhaps shall we see hearts and minds instead of just this outer covering?

Judge the character. Let the dreams become reality. Let the differences encourage complement not complaint. Let us join hands as sisters and brothers. Let us jump into the melting pot feet-first.

Just think how boring life would be if we all were the same. 

Gravestones and Epitaphs

How can you squeeze the entirety of a life into a few words on a stone? The day your lungs inhaled their first breath. The day they exhaled their last. And a line in between. Maybe a quote that meant something to you. Perhaps your family designation. Wife. Mother. Father. Brother. Husband. Child. Sister.

But that’s not the all of you. You were so much more.

Your body and soul now separated. My memories of you and those few stone words all that remain.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. And the carved remembrance. Until it fades and crumbles too. 

Gravestones and Epitaphs

Gravestones and epitaphs

Gravestones and epitaphs

Forgotten voices, no longer heard laughs

See them walk up the hill

See them lie in the grass

On the rock faces their firsts and their lasts

Gravestones and epitaphs

Gravestones and epitaphs

A silent stone angel delivers the mass

Green are the tree buds

And greener the grass

Let go the memories you had caught and held fast

Gravestones and epitaphs

Gravestones and epitaphs

Watch as the future slips out of your grasp

Do not miss the present

Do not lose the past

Someday you will find your own stone in the grass

Jagged Edges - The City That Never Sleeps

There they were. A forest, a people, cowered into corners, cardboard raised, hands brittle, feet numb, hair wet.
Though scattered across the city they were an army.
Each with a story of how they got to the corner of fifth and 42nd, palms out, croaky voices raised.
I saw the jagged edges of who they were,  run down from living on nothing but the grime of the streets.
I saw their hurt.
And it hurt.
Because I knew, that these people didn't realize that there had been a sacrifice made for their life.

They don't realize how rich they truly are.

Jagged Edges

We’re not always smoothed over people.

We can’t always live life inside the filtered edges of the perfectly arranged photograph. We all know darn well that right outside the frame of picture, there is strife and dirt and mess and dust. You may have a perfectly centered image, just the right amount of softened blur, the magic hour lighting, but I know the real you.

You need to know I’m not afraid of the real you. I’m not afraid to live outside the beautiful within of your pictures. There’s living outside the edges. Yes, it’s rough.

There’s beauty there too.

Jagged Edges

The Sea, he is angry for the earth loves him less

She’s chosen another, birthed a new son

Passed over, forgotten

His jealousy is ice

He throws waves like arrows, all his might to destroy her

She’s already broken as he cuts her and stabs her

She bleeds in her dust, her edges protruding

The Sea in his fury throws himself at the cliffs

reaching for the infant

her baby, her fire

Straining the bounds of his watery domain

But he cannot

he cannot

kill the fire he hates

so he must find another

and his eyes fall on me

Jagged Edges {there's fear}

Don’t get too close. I might hurt you.

It’s not purposeful. Trust me.

I don’t want to cause you pain.

It’s just that I’m a little broken in all the wrong places.

You know, against the grain. I’m ragged— they haven’t been neat tears.

More than scars—they’re physical demarcations. Deformations.

And if you get too close my serrated edges. They will cut you.

In all the wrong places. They will more than leave scars.

You’ll be deformed. Like me.

I don’t want that for you.

Don’t get too close. I might hurt you.

{it’s ok. I can heal you}

somewhere in the grey

Even without colors, they were able to make us laugh and cry, these performers hidden in the grey scale. Even with all the power that color has these comedians and singers, news reporters and characters, conveyed their emotions and the emotions of others. Even though it was visually less intoxicating they still managed to captivate their audiences. And maybe the effect was even more acute without the added distractions of HD and surround sound. Maybe their personalities and stories were all the more vivid because of the simplicity.

Regardless, somewhere in the grey a whole lot of color was hiding.

Somewhere in the Grey (for May 25)

We stagger through the fog. It burns our eyes. We don’t know where we are going. We cling to each other.

I open my mouth to speak, in a desperate attempt to communicate. The bitter fog fills my mouth, burns my lungs; it chokes me.

I can’t breath. I can’t breath.

My hand drops from your arm.

You disappear.

My hands grope around in the grey. I can’t find you.

Where are you?

My lungs constrict. I fall to the ground.

A hand on my shoulder. Two more hands pulling me up. 

But I don’t know who it is.

Panic

Somewhere in the Grey

I’m breathing hard, eyes closed, waiting for the bullet.

My gun still hovers beside my comrade’s head.

And a busload of soldiers, with curses and disbelieving shouts are drowning each other out.

I don’t listen.

But suddenly, a crackle and a voice that’s different:

“Command, this is Delta106, we have affirmative on objective. We’ve breached the perimeter.”

We’re frozen. Staring at the radio.

Because there’s some forgotten sound behind his voice.  Like music.

It’s birdsong.

Is this real?

I drop my gun.

Maybe there is sunlight on our horizon.

Somewhere beyond this ash is the place where life still lives.

Somewhere in the Grey

The answers are sometimes hard to find. Why me? Why her? Why him? Why us? Why now? Why this?

Why?

We crane our heads around corners, peer long and hard down the corridors of life, looking, searching, waiting.

There is comfort in not knowing. There is peace to be found. I don’t know the answers.

But I know the One who does. And He has promised that all shall be well.

The answers are sometimes hard to find. But isn’t that the way mercy works sometimes? Not seeing the black and white but knowing the answer is somewhere in between?

A Sometimes Fool (for last Saturday)

She was collected, organized, and mostly perfect. Her socks were always matched and her hair always straight. She never talked with her mouth full and nothing ever surprised her. She had it all together; people marveled at her neatness and how organized her life was.

But sometimes, in the every-once-in-a-while, the occasional momentary lapse of reason that sporadically overtook her she would let everything go--speak before spoken to, disregard her turning signal, dance like nobody is watching, jump off cliffs. And it was during those times that she was happiest. She was a sometimes fool.

An Oftentimes Fool

As I placed my foot on this road again, there was that momentary hesitation, that fleeting moment of questioning. Then I looked up, looked at you, and ran ahead.

My heart, oh simple foolish heart, don’t you know what road this is? Don’t you know that at the end of the tunnel is not light but hurt? Not joy but that throbbing ache at the bottom of your belly that threatens to break open your chest. Not smiles but tears at night on a lonely pillow.

Maybe this one is different. Maybe this time the answer will be yes.

Please?

An Oftentimes Fool

Well. 

It had all come down to this. How had he lived his life before? Clearly, he realized, he hadn’t lived it to the fullest. 

He smirked. Though there had been some great moments. Indeed. 

He had to admit though, that they usually ended with a poor outcome.  

Even now! At this one moment. 

It had been a wonderful night. He hadn’t realized who that beautiful woman was.

But now he kneeled in front of her father. 

Who also happened to be the king of the land. 

“Who is this man?” 

“He is a fool.” 

Indeed. More often than not.