January 31: XXXI.

it's been a month,
maybe two,
maybe none,
maybe us,
maybe you,
maybe none.

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clear, honest, direct.
understood, without a manual.
questions, not needed.
answers, freely provided.
definition, still lacking.
faith, still waning.

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It isn't any specific one,
It isn't any specific thing.
It isn't you, me, them, us.
It's now, the present, the moment.
Specifically.

January 25: Word Count.

four-lettered words bandied about
five-lettered words reach out
definition is fluid,
honesty is sobering.

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There is no paths, just pedestrians. No destination, just rest stops, a journey spent wandering.

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one week,
seven days,
twenty-four hours,
sixty minutes,
second helpings.

January 24: Fireflies and Rain.

A warm summer night - the heat,
Long blades of grass - the field,
Fireflies dance in the sky - the code,
Their message encrypted - is it Morse?
Their pattern mesmerizing - the tone,
A show viewed, a show enjoyed - the one.

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Quiet drops of rain,
Cool rays of sun,
Dark clouds of gray,
Dreary colors of day,
Solitary escape of time,
Momentarily loss of hope.

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A fragile psyche, a love, boundless. A target, unknown, a destination, undiscovered.

January 22: Mine.

Without,
I healed, I struggled,
Ours, became mine.
Time stitched,
faces forgotten,
A flash, a smile,
A flood begins,
Mine, not just mine,
With, it's ours.

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The name,
almost forgotten,
The pain,
always remembered.
Good, bad, ugly, pretty.
No longer there, here.
Now.

January 19: Word Vomit.

The clock sheds seconds,
the ball put into play,
the handoff, fumbled,
the play, ruined,
the night, a loss.

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My heart, on the sidewalk,
My words, falling from my lips,
My bile coating both,
As a I vomit a string of emotion.

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a beer, or three,
a shot, or two,
a word, or seventeen lines,
clarity, understanding,
agreement, tenuous,
timing, off.

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The bull in the china shop can't distinguish the Ming Vase from the cheap porcelain. He's reactionary, feeling cornered, his rampage unable to distinguish what is easily replaceable from that which is priceless. His aim is escape, his intent a clear path, and yet, all he ends up with fragments, once valuable, left from a careless rampage.

January 18: Sidewalk Talk.

It's not what your saying,
It's what you're implying,
The explicit, sounds sweet,
The implicit, demeaning,
The sum isn't equal,
The parts don't fit,
The lie is spun,
A heart isn't won,
Confidence lost.

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A square of pavement,
A snippet of talk,
A call for honesty,
An admission of guilt.

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Check down, admit defeat,
stopped. at the start.
Step up, accept risk,
finish. at the end.
Under stress, invite pain,
winning. in the middle.

January 17: Somber Sunday.

Melancholy, beaten
- barren.
Thoughtful, intent
- numb.
Exposure, explicit
- done.

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A sea of faces,
A wave of familiarity,
A tone of comfort,
A touch of solace,
A room of nobodies.

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What's the extreme? What's the passion? Where is the drawing down of the barriers going to lead? If the I open the flood gates during a dry spell, what happens if it rains? Can I handle the deluge, can I be passionate, can I be pained, can I love, without being loved?

January 14: Faded.

the pain, the rush,
the urge, the hope.
faded, jeans,
spent, bills.

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a smile,
a laugh,
a moment.
a drink,
an evening,
a lifetime.

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It's like never living, being thirty and so awkward. My emotion, my reactions, never were polished, never were honed. That laughable teen, fumbling blindly, never quite comfortable, still present. Chances pass me like cars on the street, oblivious and intent. Their destination one I'll never know.

January 5: Not. Today.

An evening, largely uneventful. A morning, largely uneventful. A step onto the bus, largely uneventful. A gray and wet sky, largely unspectacular. A footstep, a rotation of the bus tire, a crack in my sanity. The flood wall breaking, the moment too much, the day overwhelming. The pieces don't fit, the events jumble, the emotions cloud. My life, reduced to a pillow, a blanket, and the comforting darkness of sleep. All I can handle, all I can bear, the responsibility of life, the daily decisions, abandoned. Left outside as I lock the door and forget the world.

January 3: Objects in Time.

Playing with Missouri as we chat,
Calling the Doctor as we relax,
Being intoxicated by Lavender as we drink.
A white hair transferred,
An artist discovered,
An object in time,
A moment, reflected,
A comfort, taken.

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A date changes,
A decade forgets,
A month is shed,
An hourglass is flipped.
Stepping stones, like memories,
lead into the future,
the path clear, yet slippery,
the stones smooth,
the rough edges not yet in our memory.