November 2018

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Aurora reaches down from her chariot and slides golden fingers through the crack in the curtains. Trivia retreats, for now. When darkness returns, she will find me at her crossroads again and we will wrap each other warmly in our lesser-known names.

- - - - -

You paint yourself as Odysseus, me as Calypso, but I weave no spells around your desires and this is no prison. I trail my fingers through your sweet sea of accusation but I have never tried to keep you here. You stayed of your own accord and draped me in golden blame. 

- - - - -

A persistent cascade, capturing unsuspecting leaves in icicles. Cold weather can turn even a blocked gutter into art.

- - - - -

You ride up to the drawbridge on thundering symbolism, armed with golden allegories, as I watch from the highest window of my metaphor. This castle may be solid stone but it is lined with clouds and velvet. Leave me to my walls. Someone else awaits your rescue.

- - - - -

My memory merges the stories. The one where the rope breaks as someone lowers into a cavern. The one where someone's oxygen fails in an underground lake and their partner lets go because you have to. The one where someone is buried forever. But I remember the warnings. 

- - - - -

"What kept you going through those nights?" she asks, looking down, twisting her hair around her fingers.

"Reading. I told myself 'just one more ' until the sun came up."

"Can books save me too?" Eye contact now. And cold, still hands.

"You can save you." 

- - - - -

I don't craft characters as much as I meet them, get to know them and let them set up camp in my head while I tell their stories. Sometimes I let them stay a little longer. We don't agree on everything but they're interesting company. 

- - - - -

So desperate to wear a crown, you made one from stone and placed it on your own head. Now you see only an inch in front, neck bent low, bones crushed and crunching beneath the weight. You could unburden yourself, but then what would you complain about?

- - - - -

soft falling crystal
makes art from frozen branches
transient treasures 

- - - - -

He arrives at the dispensary, walking like an apology, grey rain clinging to his hair. A drop lets go and he wipes it from the desk with a handful of scars. His voice lies lost in a cold, empty trench.

As he leaves, the clouds split open with gratitude. 

- - - - -

Mysteries we discussed the morning before I left you:

- How no-one really knows the final resting place of the HMS Endeavour.
- How tobacco is so expensive and electronics are so cheap.
- How surprisingly quickly bruises fade.
- How much you love me. 

- - - - -

birds arrive en masse
a fleet of celebration
carrying wishes 

- - - - -

I look through the scope again for the green and blue globe  that I remember from before.

My brother pokes me with his foot. "Why are you looking? You won't see it."

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