we felled it, you and i, the great tree between us. my hands were on one side of the long blade, yours at the other. our back and forth bickerings our slow draws of indifference served as lumberjack cuts through the trunk of a marriage grown weak with rot and decay. the leaves had all fallen away, no fruit had ever come of it. and when we could no longer grow we died. but we…
we drive today on friday the thirteen toward that eternal battle between life and death, hoping against hope for good news good friendship good times even if they could be the last. i have never faced death myself, though he teased me once with a glimpse many years ago as our car spun around and slammed into a ditch. he has taunted me many times hence by plucking the ones i love from my life…
there are days where music is background noise, a dozen conversations overlapping in the confines of a glass room. there are days where music is a beating pulse, a throbbing rhythm driving the momentum of your work. and then there are days where music is the invisible beauty, ethereal sound waves filling and overflowing your silence completely.
she spread blank sheets out before her on the desk, picked up the quill and drew the nib across her wrist, slicing thoughts from her mind to drip and then flow, bleeding through her world in a catharsis of words.
