I think it was a sign
When you got a dog that doesn't like cats
Actually, a dog that wants to eat cats
and I have three
two of them you gave to me

You

I see you in my shower products, I'm not sure why.
The tub is filled half-way with water so hot it leaves my skin red and stripped.
Laying down in it, I stare up at the rack thingy hanging from the shower head.
There are five bottles of various shampoos, three face masks, two conditioners, and much more, all stacked on top of each other, no organized design.
All my herbal, natural, organic products- make me clean, pretty, relaxed, renewed- or at least that's what they are supposed to do.
And as I stare up at them, I only see you.

Two and a half years.  That is not really all that long.
Should it go on longer? Or should it stop, it has been long enough?
Or will the decision make itself, just maybe not now, maybe 5 or 10 years along?

The House

The sky is clear, but it isn't blue, it's somehow a varying shade of gray mixed in with white that seems as if you could almost see through, to what might be above.
A November day that cannot make up its mind.
It's 5 past three in the afternoon as it comes into view.
The house.
White picket fence, a lush garden behind, tended to with love but allowed the freedom to expand.
The air feels cold
You peer inside
The porch and you can see into the kitchen.
Jam and homemade soup.  
Rocking chairs, lace curtains, two dogs.
The barn to the side, a horse and chickens.
The door open, welcoming in the cold, unafraid.
The house is unafraid.
It's warmed from something I want to touch.
In it exists everything I lost, and everything I have never found.
If only I could walk inside.
The house
It exists in another realm, a separate level of reality that I can't set foot on.
And I want it.
It's a bright brilliant blue, a color that reminds you of babies and Morning Glories in full bloom.
A purple trim that seems joyous and at the same time subdued.
Something that is already stated so it doesn't steal the show.
The barn, red and old, small and filled with items that contain lifetimes, that can fix things, a place that can hold things, and the answers to everything.
I drive by slowly, taking it in as I do every day.
Wondering what would happen if I just walked in.
I took a picture one day, to hold on to and remember.
The house, it greets me in my dreams.  In layers.  I feel it in layers.  I know it inside and out, but only when I sleep.
I want to wake in it, but I never do.
And I drive, slowly, wondering, believing in everything I think it holds.
And isn't that the first step?

The hike to nowhere

A start point, you've never seen before
with no end point in mind
Left at first sight of slight light, creeping up and peering over the mountain ridges
No need for food sustenance comes in through your eyes
Wild and free
wandering
there is such illicit attraction in that idea
but break it open and let it be open and willing 
Leave the car, the house, no goodbyes
No fear in letting it all go
Just feet below and a silent quiet head
Seeing green and life
and not caring about anything else
One foot in front of the other, just as you were born to do
Its all you'll ever need to get through
They just all lied to you
And the answer is this simple and true
Soft layers of earth, dirt you were born into
Envelop feet
Chill of air, blow of wind, glow of sun on back
Return you to a time when you were carefree
Just walk
walkwalkwalk
and don't look back, don't return
No stop, no destination
just dream, forest, stream and lake
Just the companionship of springtime flowers, light cleansing showers,
and the openness in front.

Long Distance

So here I sit,
from a stationary post,
there's no need for movement,
this disintegrates all on its own.

You're an idea,
ghosts revolving in my head
a play I create, characters molded from people I once knew,
with a bit of added fabrication
People we used to be.

And I sit, there is nothing I need to do
This play is already written, and being perfectly acted out
And I'm not doing a single thing to try and stop the show from going on
or to rewrite a happy ending.

I imagine you
You imagine me
I remember once we lived together
and once you noticed how I wore mismatched socks
and how the first time I rested in your arms it began to pour outside
and I watched it drip down the glass on your door

I imagine you and I remember sitting on stones
The middle of a creek
and it was cold and November
and rain fell down
splashing creating rings
that we became mesmerized by, letting our minds fall in to the places where they went
disappearing...

A ressurection
Its been attempted a few times
But nails driven in,
always leave their holes.

I wish you would ask
I wish you were more than just in my head
I hold you up and it all falls down soon after I see you
and this all feels so dead
when it once felt alive

There's a fence in a field
the field, its filled with new green grass shooting up trying to reach the source of light
but it never can

Yearning, and pillow cases stained with black where mascara runs
And a lack of understanding
No more creekside moments
No more rain tapping against window panes
No more opening the door and stepping out to let it in and see stars in the patches where clouds break apart

It's only soild tears, grey heavy skies, and the strange thought that I can discover the sun more easily on my own.
This is long distance, at it's close.

Sick in bed

Sick in bed
immobility
But did you know its all just in your head
They say you can heal anything, its just in your head
Its a matter of subtle adjustments, slow constant restructure
Could instead of should
There's a shelf of self help books
but they are left mostly unread
when reading a book requires too much energy to muster
and setting it down is easier
what does that mean?
Cold, cold, cold
bath bath bath
throw up throw up throw up
Fish oil, turmeric and vitamins,
Organic, salad, yoga class
Can't sleep cant sleep cant sleep
Cant eat, cant eat, cant eat
Such a cycle of never being well.
And you wonder if you cast this all over yourself like a sick disciplinary spell
Then you have to administer concoction after concoction to fix yourself
but nothing you swallow, and nothing you read seems to have the same power
as that sick little spell
whispered over and over in your head
on repeat
gotta find the stop button, and press it down firm
gotta get a new track in time, and put it on play
new things, new spells, that heal and create
fix and mend.

Let's just see what comes...

She was 27, 15, 14, 13 and 2.

And now I can't remember.  Is it 30, 31, 32, could it be 33?
And how long can this continue to go on?
That is the most amazing part of this all, the absolute continuancy.
And once she is gone, it will still continue on in so so many ways.

In the way my finger nails are small, round but with a slight squaring at the tips, just like hers.
In the way I catch my reflection on a tired, sullen day and I see her in it, for only a second before quickly changing my face.
In the way I see a man, standing there by the tree, and I can't ever imagine allowing myself to want to know him.
And the other man, older, greyer, sitting on the bench by the slide- in the way I see I monster when I don't even know who he is.
In the way I dance, the way I move and the way I scream.
The way tears come readily to my eyes when there is seemingly no reason to cry.

And it will continue on with the whys.  The why why whys.
In sadness and wreckage and failed attempts to heal.
In patterns of predictions

In lies continuing to be taught
In accidents and hate
in other people, as if it determined by fate.

And I'll hear her in songs
Feel her in those fields of golden oats
the smell of existence rising from dirt turned to mud by early autumn rains

I wonder about you
Where you are and who you are
Who I am
and I guess at the connection
while attempting to sever it and save myself from this infection

But its in me I feel it
Black and thick, evil and ingrained
Like  an additional murder victim,
forgotten and left to decay in this house

This yellow house
Filled with screams and roses
and shattered glass.

Filled with children too keen for their time
Destroyed by moments behind closed doors
and no dress placed on that little girl
no new stories told
could ever replace the everything that was lost

And now the sighing, the yoga, the salads, the journal
The defiance
And even the admittance
are petty attempts at covering
this consistent fall from grace

Bright stage, true audience that won't leave when the show gets bad
Sitting
Still
Could it fix?
And draw the curtain
an end to continuance.