Dead Flowers....

She saves the dead flowers upon her counter top.
Reluctant to erase the memories of the feeling they provided when they were in bloom.
Colors as bright as the eccentric artist that brought them to her could be... When he wanted to.
Now as hard as the memories she prefers to recall of him. It makes it easier to move on.
Distractions come in small doses. A strangers smile, a held open door, the feeling of possibility and new.
But it's not enough. She's artistic and believes in magic. Although she does her best to convince herself it exists in others. It doesn't. Loneliness and a feeling of longing for a connection creep up at night. It forces her to try harder with what's in reach.
A hand held, a feeling of warm relief. It slips away, as time does, but ageless is love.
They meet again, confined to the beds that their respective families have designated them to.
They are within reach and hold hands, getting that warm relief... only this time it's real. They are at the end of their lives and not a moment has passed. They look at each other and smile, as they always have. Not a day has gone by.

The scars from a love that hurt when they were new
Have made the wounds that caused them stronger than glue.
A tattooed reminder invisible within.
Have covered the scars faded on the skin.

January 12, 2016

Absolute devastation, when you once again realize you have been played the fucking fool.  I guess some of us will simply NEVER learn! I had hope (minuscule as it was) hope nonetheless that perhaps this would have been the year of reckoning for me.  I was most certainly mistaken.