Lonely Is So Lonely Alone

I hate it
when the one you want to be there
isn't, not because this person doesn't want to be,
but just because this person is completely understandably busy.

That way,
you have no reason to be upset
at this person for not being there
but the longing doesn't go away.

It's fine,
but still you wish your house wasn't so dark
and so empty
and
so
damn
quiet.

Perfection

Tumble through the grain
and brush new life with your toes
Some seeds can get stuck in your hair,
but sometimes that's just how it goes.

Walk into the river after
from toe to head get wetter
and after all that grass and dust
the world will all seem better.

Float on your back and look straight up
it's the purple sky that makes it so right
when you breathe the lilac and love the still
You'll realize the beauty of a lonely summer night.

For the one who woke me up.

I know we get along sometimes
like soap and milk
but it sure makes a cool spectrum.
I guess we fight because we know
we will just forget about it
and be laughing in an hour.
We love each other no mater what.
You know my every nook and cranny,
and even in knowing me so well,
you love me anyway.
You've seen me through so much,
heard me cry so many times,
and made me laugh harder than I knew possible.
You know all my fears,
all my desires,
all my secrets,
whether I told them to you or not.
You are someone I could never replace.
I love you,
my friend.

Melody

When music happens
my heart beats with it
that odd, wonderful connection
between heart and song
mind and music
soul and sound

My mouth opens
and sweet song introduces itself to ears
the color yellow
tasting of honey
and smelling of mimosa.

It is not a sound from me.
It is a sound God
puts deep within
indescribable joy
that I sing.

After a funeral

They line up.
One by one.
And say
"I'm sorry."
All wearing black,
and I wonder what they are sorry for.
I stand
and smile,
but not too much.
And wait for it to be over.
What I want to do is collapse
and cry and let them surround me.
A circle of love
is ten times better
that a procession of sorrys.

Then I go home and pray agian.
Dear God,
What can I do?
He didn't deserve this.
Can't we bring him back?
Isn't there anything that will bring him back?
Please?
Amen

People constantly call
wanting to take me out to lunch
and talk things over.
I can't believe they feel like eathing.
And talking.
Those are the last things I want to do.

"It will make you stronger."
they say,
"You'll be okay. Life goes on."
They don't remember the grave they just saw
that is proof
that sometimes
life
does
not
go
on.

I blow them all off.
Being a jerk
is definately
one of the five stages of grief.

Eventually protocal states
that I have to leave my room
so I put on makeup
and be like a clown
and no one will see
the real face
behind the mask.
They can't see
the sad me.
The depressed me,
the shamed me.

It's so hard
to let go of someone who's died
and live your life again.
Leaving your greif is like
leaving that person.
So guilty.

The calls have stopped by now.
Everyone seems to think that once I've emerged,
that I'm fine.
That the supporting job is done.
They don't realize,
that by the time I'm ready to talk,
that's when I actually do need them.
A lot.

Few realize
that I don't need anything from them
but time
and love.

I don't need to cry
all the time.
I just need to know I can.
And have a shirt to soak with tears.
One that isn't mine.

When?

I can't imagine
a love
that promises
not to leave.
Does it exist
outside of God?
Maybe when I truly
stop being afraid
and learn to trust,
maybe then it will come.
Maybe all I need is
more faith.
I doubt it,
though.
Love isn't really
like that.
Love can be wonderful.
It can also be gone
tomorrow.
When will I trust someone?
When I trust myself to be okay
when they leave.

The reader.

My life is foggy, but books are clear.
I block myself from my own life's story,
but as I crack open books, they crack open me.
And I feel.
And I cry.
I hate crying, but books always do it to me.
Do I read because I'm a masochist, then?
I think I read because it's easier to let myself feel
and cry over someone else's life
than it is to let mine sink in.
Then again, I always find my own life,
myself,
in the books I read.