Photo Album

Photo Album

I pulled out the old photo albums
but was afraid to open them.
It would be like
tearing the bandage off a fresh wound
and sticking your finger inside.
There would be warmth,
but the pain would be unbearable.
So I leave the bandage
over the wound that should have healed
years ago,
and stare at it from across the room.

It’s been three years,
and still I cannot speak your name.
I give nicknames to those who share it.
They think it is because I hate you.
It is because I still love you.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you,
some days, I think of nothing else.
I have tried to move on,
but there is nowhere for me to go.
The hill where I used to sit,
waiting for your visits,
is gone now.
The cave I called home
is sealed.
I wander the wilderness,
lost and afraid.
Even if you wanted to come home,
you could not find me.

John Mayer sings in the background.
He too, is “Dreaming With a Broken Heart”.
I should turn it off,
but the tears make me feel close to you.
It may seem as though you ruined me.

Not so.

Before You,
I didn’t exist.
With You,
for a moment in time,
I was loved.


The Day Before Tomorrow

The Day Before Tomorrow

It’s the day before tomorrow,
some call it today.

I feel shame giving name
to such a waste of time.

I sat by the phone all day,
wondering why it never rings.
The mailbox was empty,
except for coupons
for things I will never use.
Television played nothing
but repeats.

I promise myself that tomorrow…
tomorrow I will let go.

But on this day,
the day before tomorrow,
I sit and strum an old guitar,
wondering what has become of you.

My cat nudges my leg,
“Time for bed”,
he gently purrs.
The clock has long ticked past midnight
as I drift to sleep.

When I wake,
tomorrow has eluded me again,
so I begin another
day before tomorrow.



I saw a ghost today,
she looked like you,
same clothes,
same hair,
same bulgy nose.

My eyes knew it wasn’t you,
but my heart was too shocked
to care.

I ran into her three times
in the aisles as I hunted for a meal.
My eyes told me the truth
but my heart begged me to believe.

The salad for one was bitter,
not like the Coneys
we used to get from Walt’s.

If I could tell you what was new,
I would tell you I quit drinking,
it never eased the pain anyway,
and I hope you would be proud.

It has been nearly four years now,
and the grief has never left,
never eased.

I force myself to live,
but there is no passion to it,
no drive,
no point.

…still, tomorrow I hope.

The Scarecrow

The Scarecrow

The scarecrow stands,
blank stare.
Nothing like the one
from the movie.
He doesn’t sing,
or dance.
Guarding and empty field
he waits alone.
The field, once alive,
is now dead.
The farmer tends the crops
no more.
She left him to guard alone.
He watches over a field of
dead dreams.
Years now he has waited,
tattered and worn,
for the crops to return.
He will be ready.

Not for Me

Not for Me

Snow has melted.
Rivers bloated with run-off.
Sun shines brighter.
People smile with the Warmth of Hope.

Not me.

Spring holds no hope
for me,
no reason ahead.
Flower bloom
their fragrance bland in my nostrils.

Summer lies ahead.
Parties planned,
Graduations celebrated.
Cool waters renew Spirit.

Not for me.

Summer heat
a precursor to the Hell that awaits,
pain of burning Sun,
as taste of torture I face.

Still, it is nothing compared
to the pain I know now.
Loneliness since you left.
Pain since you last held me.
Despair I swim in.

No Hell will be worse than this.



I cut down the Oak
I planted for you.

Many were the birds that called it home
as it grew strong and tall.
It was a sight to rival your beauty.

It died when you left.
The birds moved out,
the branches drooped under the weight
of loneliness.
I could not bear to uproot it,
for the hope that you might return
and save us,
but the tree begged to be
released from its pain.

So I swung.

Each hit killed a memory,
a dream,
a promise unfulfilled.
The Oak fell with a sigh of
“Thank you”.

I fired the wood
in the hearth that should have been ours.
The stench of burning hope
clogs my nostrils.
The fire is cold, uncaring.
It burns because it knows
no other way.

Soon, it too will die.

My Virtual Friend

My Virtual Friend

We have never met,
you and I,
not in the traditional sense.
This virtual world brings us together.
A chance meeting,
on a random site.
I call you friend,
not knowing who you really are,
nor you me.
We write notes,
send smiles,
tell each other we care.
I send you my deepest secrets
in words thrown together
to resemble poetry.
You never critique.
Everything I write to you is true,
you have no way of knowing for sure.
You write your story
and title it fiction,
hoping no one will believe.
I never judge.
I hope what you write is fiction,
no one should live like that.
Through your writing I feel your pain.
I long to squeeze it out of you,
virtual hugs just aren’t tight enough.