Love Letter 4

Dear DM,

I have been living my life as though you were absent. I wait for you and in waiting I sometimes forget that you are already inside of me, soul-same. I dream of the day that you occupy my life, as you now occupy my thoughts and dreams. I have never been patient. Waiting is torture. So I have decided that I must live my life as if you were already here. I mean this in a philosophical sense of course. Who do I want to become? What do I want to do in this moment just as it is? I can only live the life in front of me.

I no longer want to be defined by my past. That is a life lived and re-lived countless times. Who will manifest my future if there is no one to occupy my present? I have operated so long from a mindset of scarcity. I am occupied with your absence but what if I were occupied instead by your beautiful existence?

I want to look at you as if you were the only person in the world, to be with you fully in each moment, to experience fully each and every second of our journey even the breaths between. There is a saying I really like “Music is the silence between the notes.” Claude Debussy. Without the silence music is only noise. Life would be noisy, unbearable, deafening without the occasional pause. We rarely speak in moments of wonder. In moments of wonder we feel with the totality of our being. I want to feel you from the bottom of my soul. I invite you into my life, into my bed, into my heart, into my soul, into all that I am. To savor you fully I will learn to savor everything. I will learn to love all that I know (including the silence) and all that I am so that I can love you more deeply. I’ll learn to listen. I’ll make space. I’ll become music.

With everything I am your DF




In me you see only a passionless epitaph

shucking shadows on a cracked concrete altar.

I can’t bare to be thought ordinary, least of all by you.


My thoughts are drowned out by your nails

against my heart, by the squeal of blood

as you tighten the stitches holding me in place.


There is no fire in your roots, no fertile underbelly

ripe for admonishment. If you were less immaculate

we might still collapse together in giddy agitation.


Your hands seek only to domesticate.

I make of your ashes and tears a rosary

but my prayers remain sullen and unrequited.

Tale Weaver – #256 – Trigger – January 2nd.


If I were to raise my voice
your fragile heart would shatter
and tear crescents into the soles of our feet.
We are actors of necessity.
Our words are cold and diaphanous
like an angel’s wings before death.

My unsmiling mouth
fills your body with contempt.
Each time I approach your borders
it is taken as a boast of enmity.
Blood makes it personal but bridges
require substance and substantiation.

If I were to open my hands
my heart would weep itself dry.
You love the idea of love,
the ideal of mother and daughter.
My pain brightens your halo:
my pain looks better on you
than it does on me.

Cosmogonic Waltz


Diana El-Hadid

The trees are cavernous here

With veins as sparing as fortune

A dearth of affinity

Misconstrues potential

And I am not exactly holding out

For what might have been

Given that what is

Has perpetual motion


I drink wine from the chink

In your armor as the blood

Of an enemy I wish to translate

And we are enemies of a sort

The kind in whom tension

Forms adhesions of incomparable mirth

I think I’ll marry you

Living on the momentum

Of your antagonistic wiles

The same way stars ricochet

When cast into open water


I’ve discovered the source of your births

Which occur intermittently

Every few months with great fanfare

And little profit

Somewhere the universe smiles

Having recognized the tides

In some distant galaxy

As your laughter spilling over

Your contributions may not effect

This planet especially but the vibration

Of your heart is the only

Music I can sleep too



Adrian Borda

Was it a lust for pomegranates

That spirited you away?

Had I been forbidden

Would I now be in possession

Of that evasive fetish, love?

Can we ever own

What we cannot forgive?

Tenderness is pain

So I stand aloof as you pass

Into the arms of a darker man


You left without a presaging aura

Passion and denial do not coincide

We grow only so much

As our respective cocoons accede

And I have become so very small

The void deeper now than my content

I know why you left

I know why I let you

And I know, even though it kills me,

That I’d do it again


I am insular you are free

My limited view of heaven

Could never hold you intact

While you’re with him

Never think of me

I’ve spent my whole life

In games of comparison

Think of me only,

When empty


A fictional poem about a man with deep/paralyzing insecurities. I am listening to some ultra sad love songs. I have writer’s block which I’ve tried to fight with chocolate and sad music not sure that I succeeded. I also wrote a poem for Curious Flowers called Moirai



I turn the lights off

When I listen to the chorus

It’s like playing chicken

With God


Music is empathic

The way it presses tears

From soul threads


Every tender refrain

Leaves me redolent

As a newly dispensed sea

A state of saturation

That expedites purity


Everything I know of love

I’ve scraped

From your bones

Words rich and iron-infused

You are

The unbroken voice within

The illumination

Of a benevolent unknown


Not much time to write hence the disconnect between the stanzas. I am celebrating Christmas with my little family unit today and then with the in-laws tomorrow.  I hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday season!

Polarity #8


There was no sign of his roommate on exiting and no means to reopen the portal. Was the his friend lost in an internal void or had he simply been refused admittance? A thorough investigation of the shrubberies offered no clues and it was with a heavy heart that he eventually climbed into his bedroom window. The alarm clock read 8 am but he knew not the day for the calender had not been changed since his departure. How long had he been away? What had become of his family in his absence? What suffering had his curiosity imposed? He changed out of his wet clothes, his drawers were precisely as he’d left them, his bed still unmade. Did they expect his return? Or were they simply catering his ghost?


He found his mother elbow deep in the kitchen sink, she was washing up after breakfast. Her contented smile did not betray grief. “Good morning…” She said catching the startled youth in her periphery. “You must have been exhausted…it’s unlike you to sleep in…” She commented regarding him with a teasing smile. Her smile soon turned to a look of surprise. “Your hair it’s so long…” She said in wonderment He reached up and ran his hands through his chin length locks shyly. Indisputable proof of his prolonged excursion. Removing her yellow dish gloves she went over to him and stroked his cheek. Her hands were warm but callused, they were the hands of a woman who’d labored her whole life. “Would you like me to give you a haircut?” She offered.

“No thanks I like it better this way….” He said shaking his head. Reaching into her pocket she fished out an elastic black band and motioned for him to turn around. Complying she pulled his hair into a partial ponytail, a consideration for work no doubt.

“I’ll get you some breakfast…the others are already outside…we’ll join them when you’re finished…” She said but before she could escape he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tightly. “You’ve grown…” She said noting the change in both his height and weight.


Weeks passed and life assumed a familiar rhythm. His absence had appeared to them only two hours still they noticed the changes that had taken place in both his appearance and manner. They thought him happier and most of the time he was happier but every now and then he found himself gazing sadly into his neighbor’s hedges. In support of his interest they bought him a guitar for his birthday. On finding that he could already play they were both shocked and delighted. They never spoke of what had happened.

His father was the one that had brought him the audition notice for a local band and it was thanks to his father that he stood now perplexed amongst an excited audience. In that moment he discovered the fate of his roommate. Pushing through a throng of excited onlookers he came to stand several feet away from a huge black stallion, atop which, his missing mate sat triumphantly. Dressed as a general and surrounded by cameramen he had to assume the handsome youth was filming a movie but how had he gotten into the city? His former roommate motioned for a pause on seeing him. Climbing over the rope partition he hurried over to his costumed friend. The last vestiges of his anxiety dissolved, smile weightless.

“We’ll meet up later tonight…give me your address…” Borrowing a pen and a scrap of paper from a cameraman he hurriedly drew a map and stuffed it into his former roommate’s palm.


Seeing as this was a dream I can”t rightly explain the ending but at long last I finished it woohoo! My dreams are monsters geez I basically compose full nonsensical novels in my sleep. I will respond to the prompt on Monday I have it ready I just wanted to knock Polarity out first.

Polarity #5


He slides a guitar into his lap and begins to stroke out a rhythm. The music comes like heat lightening. He’s got friends back home but they are all based off the same carbon paper sketch. His roommate is different, nonchalance tempered with a vicious musicality. The mysterious blond being absent most days he’s started to bond with the other residents. All teenagers, all victims of the regime. Like wildflowers dipped in vinegar they are beautiful, experimental, and deranged. He doesn’t fit in quite yet but the nascents always struggle or so he’s been assured. He’s already fallen in love, music is his rebellion, a few lessons and he’s proven himself something of a prodigy. Sometimes she stands in his doorway, alabaster thighs hugged together underneath a plaid skirt. He likes her but he doesn’t know enough to assume reciprocation.


Since he’s been here his style of dress has changed. More necessitous than volitional but it suits him just the same. He’s put on a healthy amount of weight and stopped cutting his hair. Sometimes the mirror startles him, as if a ghost wore his increasingly foreign flesh. There are a lot of mind-altering substances circulating but he’s chosen to stay clean, the circumstances, are themselves illuminating. The freedom to do nothing is itself a burden. Sometimes he catches a face in the queer blue glow of a monitor and panics. The vacant expressions imply a fate more terminal, than that of mindful labor. He still cleans his room though not with a militant precision and he still showers in lukewarm water out of deference to others but he’s learned to speak with less reserve. He hasn’t decided on a mind state yet, if this is happiness or just delirium.


(My dreams always start out very clear and organized but then they start to get disjointed. At this point there was so much happening simultaneously that I’ve been unable to pull out the details in the same linear fashion)



I adhere

To your wooden frame

Blind and incremental

I strip a molten cloak

From the embers

Of your disenchanted core

What if I were

An aria

Both proud and wild

An aria

That only

Your awkward hands

Could reproduce?

Would you profess me

On that day,

As on all others,

Your muse?

Eat Sleep Breathe


The smell of rain

Precedes you

To own my persuasion

Would be to shelter defeat

I cannot abide you

Knowing the pulse

That stirs your heart

Pauses for no one


Password protected,

My smile, undulates

Every time you enter

The room

Please don’t perceive me

Haunting you

Leave me

To these

Illicit impressions

My lips against

Your possibility





Always impoverish

My advance

Without you

I lose the will

To surface

Each morning


My avoidant frown


Amputates conversation

I won’t let you in

And as long as the sun

Goes on rising

I’ll carry you


On tip of my tongue


But never



My poem Apostate was published here