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The Guardian

I watch you;

With obedient eyes.

When you walk.

When you sleep.

When you talk.

When you leap.

That night wasn’t a premeditated excursion,

But a mere rendezvous between truck and soul.

Some may see a woe; a burden lifted, in my eyes.

“Always is the good that die young.”

But I call it fate.

Wary hands.

Burnt soul.

Torn smile.

She prays as He holds Her.

I miss them more than they miss me, most definitely.

The world keeps on spinning; a disconnected puzzle.

Grey skies of pollution;

Hands: clenched into a fierce fist, not open for reconciliation.

Whatever happened to working it out?



She.

Beautiful.

Placid.

Loving.

Eyes of the blue, unruly waves of the once breathtaking ocean; now sullied and exploited.

Kind-hearted.

He.

Infuriating.

Boisterous.

Rowdy.

Eyes of the blackness of the unending hole, dragging the unwanted souls away.

His flaws just make Hers so much better.

Her.

Tolerant.

Complaint.



No, it is not the normal once upon a time story .

I have a mother. Had.

In my story nobody flies. Nobody sings. Nobody casts a spell.

I do not sweep.

And there is no happy ending.

Without consideration of the epilogue, though.

It was a cold, rainy and dark night.

Absolutely not.

Though, if it were so, I might not be as infuriated.

Sun shining, cool breeze, mid-afternoon overcast with the rays itching to burst into view.

Of course.

My story could at least be a slight more theatrical. But of course it is a tedious and happy beginning that has no ironic twist, sorry.

But I will save that for another day.

Bottom line is they make temperance laws for a reason.



Erasing that blur as best as I can. It was quick. It is for the better.



I watch Him embrace Her as She lays down carnations.

My favorite.

Clandestinely he beams at her loss. A solemn grimace when She glances at his face.

He tells Her that He is sorry.

Deceit!



Central Park. New York. City.

I had glanced at the time. Only the fortieth time. My last time.

Only to find the minute hand had moved two whole “tocks”.

Nobody was coming. The light was red.

Red.

Red.

Red means STOP.

A stumble did it.

The rock that I stepped over

Did it.

The loud rumble of the intoxicated

Did it.

The two “tocks”

Did it.

The baby who began to cry

Did it.

Whatever it was, I wish to thank.

I wish to exclaim my gratitude that I no longer can

Hold Her;

Smell the sweet scent of carnations- my favorite;

Lick the last spoonful of brownie mix;

Watch Her grow up;

Tell Her I love her;

Tell Her that

I watch her;

With obedient eyes.





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