untitled no. 73

there are things that smell like yesteryear
smell like love, smell like fear
all these things that we held dear
are trapped in time, just like we're

untitled no. 72

my mind keeps making lists
of facts and figures, charts and graphs
accompanied by endless plot twists
shown by rows and rows of photographs

I'm frustrated by myself.

I expect too much and always disappoint. I can't do everything and get overwhelmed. I try to make people happy and don't. When people do things like disregard what I've said, I initially perceive it as a slight but know that it isn't...it's just them.


I think myself to be entirely ridiculous but can't seem to help the way I see things. I try so hard at things but never achieve what I deem as fruition.

I'm tired.

Daydreams

I know why Amelie cries. Any dreamer would cry when they realize that the beautiful thing in their mind is just that: a dream. I lie in bed with one leg on top of the blanket but under the soft leg of the cat, and dream about my life. In my mind, I have many plans. I should be...cooking. Pasta. My husband comes home from the store with artichokes and I have him taste the alfredo. “It is very good,” he says. I smile and throw my arms around him. I missed him all day, I tell him. He is not surprised. A smirk forms in the corner of his mouth. The sound of a Billie Holiday record fills the air and the pasta boils over. We do not notice.

I am disturbed in my reverie by the cat moving in her sleep. A cat's temperature is 102 degrees. It keeps my feet warm while I sleep. But tonight my feet are too warm. Summer is upon us and my blanket is too heavy. I like heavy blankets, but I do not like my feet to be too warm.

I resume my dreaming by walking down the steps of my quaint apartment building in the city. I put my notebook and pen into the basket of my bicycle and pedal to the park. I sit by the bridge over the pond and write beautiful poetry. I am working on my third book; a novella about an American who joined the French Foreign Legion because he was afraid of the love he had for a petite painter in Paris. The first, my premature autobiography, was a bestseller. Just as I notice the handsome man I have been watching eat his lunch every Thursday afternoon in the park as I am writing cross the bridge, my cat decides that now is a perfect time to stretch out and claw my big toe.

Disturbed into reality, I ponder the legitimacy of daydreams. Does a dream detract from daily life? Is real life more perfect than a dream? Or, is a dream an ultimate reality? Do all people notice the divisions in their skin as the light catches on them within their gaze? Must pianists play classical music at tempos I deem inappropriate to the meanings of the songs?

I stretch out as much as the cat and fall asleep.

The Doctor's Wife

I have no idea where this came from. Somewhere in there I started narrating from a man's perspective. Huh.

An evening of fine array

where all fine people stray

can lead to catastrophe

when straying you do see.

I noticed everything in sight,

The candles brown, the linen white.

A fine young girl walked up to me

and handed me a cup of tea.

My friend, the doctor, walked my way

and asked the girl to stay.

I said, “Doctor, who is this?

That you have this lovely wish.”

“This is my wife,” the Doctor said,

“With whom I think, you've been in bed.”

“Perhaps my memory is not the best,

but Doctor, is this some kind of test?”

The girl looked nervous next to me,

as though my lover she'd happened to be.

I turned to the girl and cried,

“And to the Doctor you did lie?”

The girl was quiet but her face

revealed the shame and the disgrace.

I did not remember seeing her

before giving me that cup of water.

“Doctor Watson,” I did cry

and he answered in reply:

“My dear detective, I thought you knew

that the wrong belonged to you.”

Can you imagine my distaste

as I fell from Watson's grace?

And as all fine people turned

to see the Doctor's glaring burn,

I saw the girl shrink fast away

to where all fine people stay.

Where fine people go to die

when their sins have seen the light.

i'm a lover who will fight for love

So I kind of have this predicament that sounds kind of ridiculous.

I'm in love with God.

Now, this is great. This is perfect. The predicament part is that even though I am in love with and loved by the Creator of the universe, I have this desire for someone to...sit with. It feels like I'm in a long-distance relationship with Yeshua, simply because He's not next to me on the couch. Yes, He's always there with me, and yes, this is actually a more perfect relationship, but it's not the same. 

Saying this out loud kind of feels ludicrous.

I think it's a perfectly legitimate need to be with one's lover, but for whatever reason it feels silly. Moreover, the desire for someone to just sit and be still with in a romantic fashion is still there, but He's not here. He is, but it's not the same. 

This really feels sillier the more I say it, but it's a very serious thing in my life right now. By wanting a physical presence when I have the overwhelming love of the Almighty God it feels like I'm cheating on my lover. Which would be...God. This does not compute.

You made the stars.


Why am I not satisfied?

existential crisis.

i am sitting on a couch watching a movie about someone that lost their mind only to find out that they lost it.

i am the latter.


i am drifting through time and space going from one dream to the next. i am in love with an idea that doesn't exist.

i am a dream.