I wish you could pour
your faith into a bottle
and it give it to me sealed
with a cork and wax.
It would taste of black cherries
hints of liquorice root and an
aftertaste of birch beer.
In my darkest, coldest moments
I would uncork the bottle and
bring it to my lips so that I
could savour the sweet concoction
of knowing that I may not
believe in myself at that moment…
someone, somewhere, has enough faith
for us both to share.
You wake in the middle of the night and the feeling (it’s called horripilation) of your hair standing on end; the sickening tremor in your chest lets you know that you are not alone. Your eyes are opened wide but you cannot see anything in the dark. You wonder if whatever is there can see you, or if you both are cloaked in the black night. Eventually you reason with yourself, since all you can hear is your own shallow, tense breathing and the creaking of the house, that this is your imagination. As you begin to fall back into slumber, you barely but unmistakably feel something brushing the stray hairs off of your forehead. The slightest movement of air in front of your face and a chill that settles within your bones. Fear and sleep fight for control and as you lose consciousness, you wonder how many times this has happened with you forgetting as soon as the dreams claim you. How often have the ghouls let you know that they are there, and that they are not going anywhere? You remember that as a child you would wake and see figures standing against the wall, and you can still feel the terror that would follow. Your last thought before you wake in the morning, is realizing some of your longest relationships have been with the shadows that cling to your covers and taste your trembling breath.
There is nothing quite like
the feeling of your body as
your foot departs from the
rocky surface of the cliff
and your body is suspended
in the air for milliseconds-
your heart trumpeting a
perfect cadence of adrenaline
and delicious euphoria.
In that moment your thoughts
are as clear as the water that
is hastening towards impact.
Heights cease to be scary when
you learn to enjoy the fall.
He was a boat maker in torn blue jeans
and she, a shipwreck in red lipstick.
He would lovingly bend the boards
and she then ripped apart the planks.
He used the gentleness of his nature
and she was powerless to the storm of hers.
The boat it floated though it creaked
and filled with water on every sail.
They knew it would end in beautiful disaster
but until then any day on the ocean
was a good one.
He was the doctor of melancholy
taking his stethoscope and placing it
in his ears and asking the patient
to take a deep breath and exhale a word
that describes their sadness.
He would listen to their heartbeats
as they blew out CO2 and regret
thinking for a moment and then writing
his diagnosis on the severity of heartbreak
and likelihood of recovery.
When he died of cardiac arrest it was
the sadness his heart carried knowing
this world would never have a shortage
of heartbroken patients but instead have
many, many repeat customers.