a married man, listens
a married man listens to his wife (and a whole lot more than she’ll give him credit for) mainly as one might...
it strikes a cord
i. the notes of her song echo across so much empty air between us (and maybe you’ll say it’s just a vibration...
a portrait of self?
it’s not some photo pinned in a frame which hangs by the door slowly collecting dust. it’s not found in memory from...
the morning after
shaft of moon-beam, cold light striking cold tile floors swept clean of history (at least for now). he sleeps, oblivious — another...
and it passed
she raised her head like you raise a glass to make a toast and when our eyes met in that specific second...
heart of the matter
we want what we see and what we reach for are such paltry things, bought off so easily by rust and ashes...
haunted (by the 6 of swords)
how could pixie know her brushstrokes on paper would haunt my waking hours, the interplay of light and shadow on those turbulent...
checkout time
no one dreams when they’re young of being poor or becoming a drunk standing in the checkout line fishing through a bag...