no.

this isn't happiness™ (The memory of you)

She

She has folded like fine paper.

She has crept across my pillowcase like a mischievous spider.

She has fled from us as a rabbit from a hound and

the dirt has collected her spirit like a soft tissue gathering a tear.

retrospective on August

Oranges by Richard Brautigan

Oh, how perfect death
computes an orange wind
that glows from your footsteps,

and you stop to die in
an orchard where the harvest
fills the stars.

Enough Already.

She is becoming more mysterious to me.

Something stringent, determined, purist keeps me from conjuring her. I still sit here though,

always me sitting here,

touching a keyboard, attempting to recollect (collect?) the words she did and didn't say to me and form those sentences out of the loose materials of smoke and tears.

Clutching at the corners of my terrible memory as it tries to shake me off like some bug from a sheet on a Midwestern clothesline.

Almost three years and she sits stubbornly in shadows while old country western singers make dream appearances like my mind is the Grand Ole fuckin' Opry.