turn on the night light

 We sat in silence in Room 1220, the bustling of the nurses feet and the machines around us filled the space.  beep, beep, beep.  On other sides of the room  as we awaited  your final return.  The hope from his mother filled the air, his life flashing before her eyes, and all she wanted for his future, her bright, shining boy.  I wish I could have  shared that with her, sitting in the chair by the window.  I could not see him in that future. A mere shadow  stood across from me  at the altar.  An empty figure  sat with me at the dinner table, and next to me at the bar. A clouded presence was all I saw  when I was teaching my children to cook our family meal.  I knew he was gone, and I had 32 more minutes until I was proven right. Until then, we sat in silence. 

As the wind blows  The tiny hairs  Along my face, Across my nose, I look across to see  A squirrel.  And in its eyes, I think it knows,  The winter is near. The leaves will fall,  And the pile grows.  But as the wind blows,  The chill goes low,  And I bundle up warm,  From my ears to my toes, And I look down to see  That the edges of my tea  Have grown cold. I remember to take a sip And the inner warmth flows.

I remember the curves of your face,  The edges of your smile and your chin  Where the thick bristle of beard hairs  Sat unkempt and untrimmed.  I remember the blues and greens  In your eyes When you looked at me  Behind the long lashes I envied, The ones I dreamed our children Would one day have.  I remember the brown hair You kept dirty and wild, Always wondering how long You could let it grow.  I now memorize the edges  Of your stone,  Curves of Cold marble that sits  And tingles my fingertips when I graze them to say hello.  The blues and greens  Now surround you, From the infinite skies  To the grass that's now Grown on the mound you Lie beneath.  The copper browns we see  Now state  Your name,  The dates,  And the words that will forever  Identify who you were  To the world.  I still see you in color, But the canvases  Had to change. 

 Not every mother neglects And not every father threatens Not every lover will leave because You cry too much And not every friend will resent Because your opinions change. Like in every bushel There are a few bad apples That make you believe the rest Will go bad.

Like the strum of the guitar My body moves to the chords  I create with my fingers. I know the sound I am meant  To hear  And yet I know that the  Strings are out of tune. All it takes is a tiny twist Of the knobs but each twist  Pulls at the strings  With each memory tied to them  Like the knapsack on the stick  That the child takes on their first ever  Journey across the river. Each twist of the knob and  Each pull of the strings takes me Back to those memories  I carry along my back  My knapsack filled with  Rocks and stones  And none of them precious  And they all seem too heavy  To carry and I seem to buckle  And may fall off the track, But I step I strum my fingers after The first twist and I hear it, The sound meant to come From the strums of the strings  And I play,  Until I hear the sound of the tune  Out of place  And I do it all over again. 

I'm consumed by the thought of you.  The chap on your lips, the lines of your brown eyes, the graze of your fingertips along my chin bounce around in my head, a celebratory dance that circles my mind, when I think of you.  The depth of your voice matches my desire to go, know,  you, myself,  deeper than the passerby can fathom in their lifetime. The rush of adrenaline that floods my veins when I see you again, each time, like that first January night, only, stronger.  I can feel the cold leather against my skin as I felt that first touch.  The scent of you left me in tangles, twists and turns I dared not undo.  I shook out of my shoes and glared into the space I occupied that you called yours.  You stared at me from the stairs that seemed miles away, I blink and you were there, consuming me in the space where I dare not move.  Breaths were short, my heart beat out of my chest and into my fingertips and you kissed me, the brush turned to press...

you stood still,  silent watching me cower   in awe, while I slowly take  one,   two,  three steps back. knowing the flames  from within you  could, would,  will, burn me. but the fire is so  warm,  I feel cold as I  move away from you. I shudder, I feel it  in the tops of my fingers to the tips of my toes.  I couldn't find your gaze, to see what you hid within, behind,  your eyes.  you turned to me. the golden glimmer  I anticipated to see was instead, red. red turned to black as you held your gaze. I become immobile,  frozen in my tracks as you start to move  towards me, slowly, each step you take  I feel my heartbeat go, higher, faster. the fire, I no longer feel  the burn. rather, I am ignited by your flames from within, again. I am, again, consumed. intoxicated,  seduced by the  curiosity of the darkness and the flames. the urge to surrender  to you grows, st...