Maybe if he …

Talisman

I wish I could write about your love.
I wish I could tell the story of how we fucked it up.
I wish you believed in second chances
The way I believe fate
Believes in us.
I don’t guess you do.
I guess that’s fair.
So I scribble our story in the sand.
I watch the waves wash it away
But they never take it
Far enough to rip it from my soul.
Maybe it’s good.
Maybe it’ll make for a damn fine death
When the water finally
Rips it away
And we realize we were meant
As more than “maybe if he” and “maybe if she”.
Maybe that’s the talisman,
The good in failed meant to be.
So we carry it,
Like we carry one another,
A secret too good to be true,
Too bad to relive,
Too sad to see those two …
Always losing themselves
In each others eyes.
Maybe that’s the talisman,
The good in failed meant to be.

 

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Patience Is a Virtue Dear

Sunday, every week ….

Prompt: Patience

Music: I couldn’t settle on one thing today so I picked a playlist on Spotify called Brain Food, it says it’s hypnotic electronic.

Patience

I’m drowning beneath the fluctuating, undulating, slowly rolling
Crushing weight of this water.

It holds me hostage, tied down by sunlight streaming, reflecting, breaking
Against the seams of who I am.

It strangles me with icy grips, threatening to rip me apart;
Pieces of paper against the downpour, soaked and floating.

Be patient is what they say, what’s meant to be …
May never have been meant for me.

But my mom taught me well,
Patience is a virtue, that’s the story they tell.

So sit with your drowning, collapsing fears.
Hold tight to your scrambling, screaming soul.

After all, patience is a virtue dear
And rescue is never near.

We grasp the daydreams
So that we become the reality.

What’s meant to be speeds overhead
Never realizing, missing, the last bubbling stand.

Sit tight with that patience there.
Help, well help is over there.

Not watching for your drowning hand,
Or your fleeting splashes.

Everything that’s meant to be
Is tied by seaweed,

Held strong to the collapsing floor;
The thin barrier between always there and nothing more.

10 minutes done.

Here We Are

Stream of thought writing, I guess this is going to be a weekly thing now –

Prompt – Inkling

Music – Steve Reich – Works 1965-1995

Inkling.

It starts with a drop, a spot of ink infecting, spreading in the water.

It was all so clear

Until

You loosed the ink composed of your fear.

Now it’s here, spreading, floating, clouding

A situation we thought was through.

Tied up and tossed aside

Like a neatly composed pile of trash.

But here we are

Lost in each others eyes.

At least I am.

I have a feeling

You are too but we can’t, can we?

Inklings aren’t enough

They don’t spread through the veins,

Becoming all we are.

Do they?

Be still, they say, let it be.

Let it disperse, the way ink should

Eventually the floods will carry it away.

Except I’ve been waiting

And it’s still here

Floating and spreading

Infecting all we’re becoming.

But of course

They say

There was never another way.

The inkling was always there

Just hidden away by fear.

You’re not scared

And I’m no longer afraid …

So what is this inkling that remains?

Time inches by

Sand through the hole we’ll never hold again.

Spread by the wind like the ink in water.

How many seconds has it been?

How long until this dam breaks

And our infested waters overflow

Carrying away everything we know,

Our fears?

Our belief?

Time’s up.


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When We Drown

The view under the waves is distorted, bending the world as we know it. It crashes, murky greens into peaceful blues with an explosion muted by the space between the Sun and me. I strain to reach, my fingers grasping for the last wispy rays of a rope I could never hope to hold. Perhaps if I try to hold them tight enough, clutched in my palm until nails bite skin, the Sun will pull me above the wake as it journeys from one horizon to another. I hold my breath but the water holds me like a lover, tight without remorse. It sighs and heaves, weaving tapestries of mystery before my eyes, tempting my lips to part as it tickles my skin.

“Drink.” It sings. “Breathe.” The siren song every fiber of my being aches to succumb to floods my ears. Water tousles my hair, roughly catching it in the fine stems of seaweed beds for two. It strokes my cheeks and surrounds every part of me with suffocating romantic intents. “Let go.” It whispers.

I cling to the Sun with weakening resolve. My hands, stained with the blood of a thousand moments, are slipping down the silken rays as the water takes me into its arms. “Just breathe.” A siren song echo in my mind. The seaweed bed pricks my skin, weaving tight through my hair, restraining my arms, pulling my legs. I have no choice, the last rays of rescue slide right through my fingers as the water pushes me violently down.

“Breathe.” It sings in a voice undeniably angelic while I watch the view under the waves, distorting the world as we know it. I have found the water is a demanding lover, a suffocating romantic with murderous intent. The seaweed grips my waist, holding me steady, while I breathe.