I am the rain
And you
Are the sunshine
We are
Similar
In that we both
Nurture
And encourage growth
You with your warmth
And me with
My tears
Our conversations
Are flowers
And together
We grow a garden

Bright Golden Girl (with a meagre scattering of thoughts on La Gioconda, La Belle Ferronnière, Lady with an Ermine, and Das Bildnis Adele Bloch-Bauer I)

The eloquent Florentine borrowed with his brushes
The beauty of their knowing eyes, their bending lips,
The breathing beauty of their wills, and subtle blushes;
Still this reflected light did they themselves eclipse.

Chapter 7 Stanley's Theory
Tom had spent the rest of the afternoon in his apartment, studying. When was the sun was beginning to set, he knew almost everything about both Cassie and Blake, from when they first met on a blind date to their breakup because he bought a car without her knowledge. It appeared that they had every reason to hate each other, but they were both dead, and it seemed they had no enemies to speak of.

“Does your family have any plans for Christmas?”

“Well, this year my parents are taking my brother and sister and me to visit our grandparents in Florida.”

“Ooo, Florida!”

“Yeah, no fear of getting snowed in out there! How about you guys? Any plans or traditions you’re looking forward to?”

“My family always goes to look at Christmas lights on Christmas Eve and then we decorate cookies together.”

“Aww, sweet!”

“Yeah, it’s my favorite tradition.”

“How about you?”

“Nothing special this year. Just enjoying time with my family.”

Chapter 6 The Intruder

Caleb bounded down the hallway, giggling as his ball rolled to the top of the staircase. It teetered for a moment, then slipped over the edge and bounced away. The boy charged after the stray toy and scooped it up, narrowly avoiding a collision with the wall and another orphan boy.

natural is
your lips on my forehead
the reverberation of your voice
in my body
your eyes when we confess
that we have never felt so at ease
my fingers transcend the air between us
make it disappear

we ask if it is wrong to feel this way
but right is
the curve of your jaw and
the way you look at me
my soul rises from its
quaking foundation
to find yours

Dear Papa,

make myself a martyr to your name
the syllables crush me
under their weight
and all the days begin to run together,
begin to look the same
while the hollows beneath my eyes
grow thick with bloodless veins

this is you on me
don't you see?
this is the shape
your essence takes
this is the shape.

I am the bed
unmade.

Have I spent my days abroad,
Suffering for the word of God?
Have I been beat, with whip or rod?
No. I’m just kind of sad.

Have I been scorned, or hated? Mocked?
Have I from society been blocked?
By cruel hands have I been knocked?
No. I’m just kind of sad.

Have I any right to complain?
When others are standing out in the rain,
With a chemical imbalance in their brain?
No. I’m just kind of sad.