Summer1993

Dear you, My dearest of dears, if only in the back of my mind. How quickly our sun has set. December will soon be upon us once more, but I, I'm still in September. And I still miss you. I miss the flames that played through our fingertips and set light upon our faces, all the passion and happiness surging in, around, and between two separate bodies. I miss the beatific load I carried in my heart in the autumn on the way to see you, smiling at my feet as they stirred up transfigured leaves, the wind puffing through my then shoulder length hair. Your eyes, so blissfully wide and simpering at my approach, amber in essence, but dark brown in re

.I. Wake up, December, Sleepy September, Across the Arizona terrain. Painting pictures in blood, dripping from broken colored glass. "Hello? Ocean? Are you listening?" .II. Get bored, go to the parade. Chased by those who wear the masks. Smiling one minute, frowning the next. Comedic-tragedy. Lips facing forward, eyes to the back. Take the dirt road to the mansion, get off the beaten track. There's a man in a diner. He has your eyes, but he smokes. Cigars. .III. Racing now, dodging bullets, sweating memories. Through the door to the nightmare room. The screams are incensed. Remnants of a battered daughter, A drug-addi

It's just me and the voice inside my head, and being alone isn't all that fair, but really, I think we make a handsome pair. Because I could fade into an oil canvas, and taste the ink on my tongue. Feel the prick of thorn upon my skin like fresh pressed flowers. Between these pages. Between these sheets. And I could call it home. Like waking up to the touch of your lips, and the smell of your hair, and how its presense still seems to linger there. Like swirling around and being turned upside down. Like being cut open and turned inside out. Yea, I love you like that. How we're both grounded and stable, and no matter how close

I remember very little of my father, other than the fact that he was a harsh, brutish man that stood firmly by the "spare the rod, spoil the child" bit of logic. I can recount numerous occurances where I dipped my hand in the cookie jar, or dragged the cat up the stairs by its tail under mother's watchful eye, only to have father rang at his place of employment and have him return home pronto. He was never happy when this happened. I hid under the bed, or in the linen closet amongst mother's lily scented towels, my heart thudding uncontrollably within my small boy's chest. All was to no avail; he always found me. As the front door downstairs