Shockingly Irresistible

Time blinks, it holds and rolls me flat under it massive girth squeezing the soul juice into droplets that rivulet away into floor seams and roof beams.
Island dreams come next and delicious comfort driven before it, herded and coaxed along my eternal expectancy driving the chaff as I peek behind every corner and doorway, relieved and disappointed by turns when finding nothing but moist air and dust clumps.

Impetuous shelter in red velvet and garden apartments we used the cheese and chocolate to hold back thundering minutes, relenting to the fine pull of strong wine and sifting through the embrace of eyes, skin, hands. Too soon it ends and time readies itself for another brace of change, our fear of its inevitability has been given symbolism as twice a year we demand all clocks and calendars rearrange themselves, a paltry gesture that resides on walls of sand to control the tide.

Now it’s crushing me against the wall as it passes by with a giant load, the vacuum of its wake with invisible hooks urging me to follow, demanding that I recognize.
Stockings and candles and rapturous smellings provide more than distractions, letting my mind-heart torrent relax, not looking behind doors or breaking silences with a sigh at least for a short time.

some cages need no steel

“It’s nice… very open… this table is really big you could invite Boone and I over for dinner sometime…”

These words drifted off in to the room and the silence swept in like falling poisonous blossoms in a hurricane. The poignancy unintentional, but carefully crafted; rolled like a fine cigar in the hands of a child.
I ran my hand, skin dry and rough from the lotion she took and I needed to replace, along the sealed wood of the cabinet concealing the TV. In silence I set up the cables and cords so that it received signal from the world outside. Images sprang into action diffusing the room with senseless chatter. The wind bent apple tree in the rumpled backyard sighed and wheezed as it gasped along with the minutes and my extended duality. Friend, former lover, spouse, handyman, fixer of meals and broken sheetrock mincing the garlic and the power of longing. My longing. The innate desire cruising through all tangents of my life, pleading with the train of time to bolt forward if even just for a minute. Get past this.

I close and lock the door when I get home. The sink smells of wet spoilage and the clothes link together on the floor in a haphazard macramé begging me to pick them up and give them the dignity of the wash basket. I kick instead, bind rage infused, and they scatter like vultures disturbed from a carcass, some of them landing on the violet pocket shoe rack hanging on the closet door. Not mine.