Brown Velvet box

Sometimes, in the dark hours, when the birds in the parking garage are silent, and all I can hear is the shushing of the tires of the homebound late shift workers, I think about you.

I try to remember the good times, the times in Technicolor, filled with heart and soul so deep all I could see was rich, brown velvet.
In a box,

that velvet climbed up the walls, caressed the bottom, contained my heart and closed it in, with cover tight. We had a thing that I am unable to name. Your face was my face, I was you and you were me…I think.

But when the chips were on the table, when it was time to show our cards, you folded. Folding, for me, was not an option. I played my hand, but it wasn’t big enough for you, wasn’t high enough, wasn’t dear enough, because you walked away from the table.

The ripple from your exit still nudges my boat.

Your hateful, negligent rhetoric and absence ripped great, bleeding wounds so deep inside me, that even now when I remember then, 
the scar tissue tingles faintly.

I was never able to let you go, because you see, you were careless enough to leave part of you with me. Funny that you didn’t even miss those parts. You were so full of yourself that those tiny, flickering flames you left me never had the power to make you turn, to look, to see how, as time progressed in my world, those flames became the light with which I traversed my world.

Now I am just I.

And you are living on another planet. I would not want you, or anyone to open that box for me, because you see, my heart was locked inside it. Lid tightly closed, It sits, in shock, unable to move beyond. I’ve tried. I don’t have the technology.

But I’ve learned to persevere. Which is different than to thrive, and in persevering I was able to release my self to those brilliant flames, that you chose to ignore for year upon years. 

So you may now have one of those flames, and I dearly pray you don’t do or say anything to snuff it out. This one needed you; she had always possessed the uncanny talent to get exactly what she wanted.

It’s not for me to say whether it’s right or wrong, it just is. But let me assure you, here and now, if you hurt or damage that flame in any way, I will come after you with a wrath you’ve never even imagined I possessed.

Petitions of the Heart #3

I have been here before. I have danced to the rhythm of the indolent breezes. I have been lulled to a sleepy torpor by the gentle patter of the summer rain. The exotic scent of wet grass is intoxicating. Even more piquant is the aroma of dusty asphalt, summer baked, exhaling fine tendrils of mist; weaving upward, dodging raindrops.

I have been here before. But then you were with me. You who protected me. You shared the Earthy splendor with me. You were my partner, my lover, my friend. And now, when the elements are just right, as they are right now on this uncommon January day, I miss you with a part of my soul that has been hidden away. The longing is hot under my skin. My eyes burn with unshed tears. And so, I dance alone. We do not reach for raindrops together. Our hands cannot touch. My eyes cannot feast upon your face. And so I dance alone.

I have been here before. The shiny streets of Chicago. Blasting out heat, angry at the summer rain. Repelling the water as it cascades through the alleys, and then heaving a sigh of resignation as it begins to soak it up. Perfume. The soft susurrus and rustle as the Earth settles down and takes a long wet drink. And I find myself turning, and searching, for you. A kindred soul who felt the Earth with me. But you are not here, and my mind skips a beat as it adjusts. I have been here before.

The Source
The streets of Chicago…In the springtime of the year you can taste the flowering,and feel the silky air caress your skin.At dusk, in summer you can hear the streets sigh with relief as the sun sets and humid air rises like a twirling, cartwheeling tap dancer leery of touching down on the moist, spongy asphalt.
In the autumn the smell is smoke.And sounds are crisp, and children crunch and stomp through fallen piles of leaves.And pump to the sky on rusty chain swings; head down, feet up.
And winter will take your life if you don’t know how to sidestep quickly.The purple sky is bruised and hurting and mean enough to punish you,you the innocent watcher,for no reason.
But winter also sings; the voice is icicles; tinkling bell notes,glittering in streetlights, mesmerizing your mind,drawing you slowly over icy sidewalks,searching for the source;the source of sound,and light,and warmth.