Park Bench

This morning marks the anniversary, the anniversary of two people dying. The open air of the park allows his thoughts to run wild as he sits alone on a bench. Today is an anniversary of days, months, years, decades—he doesn’t know. But this morning is the anniversary of the ending of a great love story—the final chapter came to a close with a tragic ending, or maybe a happy one—he doesn’t know. The only things he knows for certain is he wishes he knew them—he wishes he had a copy of their life to read over and over until the pages yellow with worn, because they changed the world. The union of these two people that died on this very day inspired young love like Hemingway inspired young writers, it created new life like Van Gough created new paintings. The book of their journeys is filled with words of wisdom and lyrics of love to inspire all who read it—though he can’t tatter the pages of these two strangers lives, because he doesn’t even know their name, but he knows they are important.



The adorable look in her eyes said

I        love        you        this        much

but the words from her mouth spat

poison like a fountain of disdain. Her

harsh utterances clamped his heart

like the tires of a towed car—sedentary

until she decides to release him. Her

cuddly body is hidden beneath a coat

of anger—he can’t be surprised, though,

for he forced her to wear it. Their fighting

words linger in the room for hours—but

soon enough a sweet aroma covers their

words and they are back to saying

I          love          you         this         much

neither of them flirt with the idea of

leaving—for they would rather live a life

of sugar and spice than risk being bland.


She was overjoyed at the sight of

the red rose. Because it meant the

bruise on her side wasn’t the most

colorful thing in the room. The deep

purple took second place to the

rich, red hue. Though sadly, the color

would fade and the petals would

whither, but her skin would remain

the same. And she would steal first

yet again—until the next time he

apologized vicariously through

floral aromas.


Snapshots of our life together slither away from me like snakes in the grass. Some move too quick for me to grasp—then some move slow like honey dripping from the bottle. I gracefully grab onto those precious moments and place them safely in the freezer so they never spoil. Each moment is trapped in the ice—freeze-dried like the breast of a chicken—so anytime I crave our memories I can allow them to thaw until they are fresh in my mind.

The Waltz

Once I danced with a vengeance so strong

I couldn’t even finish the song because the

night was scorched with his breath


Now I dance with nothing but your hand

In mine and a sweet glass of wine because

Your breath blesses the night air.


We don’t ever worry about finishing a

Song for we have enough spring in our

Step to last through a lifetime of albums.


And for a lifetime we danced and with each

Passing year I learned that the tighter I held

You, the sweeter the sound of the music.


Until we reached the tracks of our platinum

Record and learned that the best way to end

A night of dancing is to seal it with a kiss.