Savior(As told by Mary Magdalene) He was seen as more by some, less by others.As a savior, or a rebel.He lived his life through his heart,being the sinew, trying to hold the world together.And I ached for him, being his confidant. There are things the scriptures never wrote,because paper could not duplicatethe fathoms of his […]

It’s the good ones that hurt you,they wound you on accident.They expose their dreams to youover drinks, or after sex.Because all their gates are openedand conversations are fluid. But the fears that clingto all the good stories,slink in, from underneath.While we lay there, making patterns out of the stains upon our ceilings.When we’re starved for […]

  I’ve lived through so many stormsthat I miss simple breathing.The ease of existing.Years of rising and falling,of trying to make sense of the ruinsand of the corrupted dreams.Of carrying the weight of choicesthat shaped me more than I ever admitted. There were good days, accomplished ones,where I thought I’d finally overcome the past.And there […]

Will you remember mebeneath all this sandWill you recall a timewhen my love was lush                                                       I have not forgotten you,                         not beneath this heat,                         not beneath the years                         Your name is the only shade                         I still stand in Where there were nomirages just […]

I pretend that melancholy tastes like caramel.One is a treat, both are rare for me.How both linger like a pest,one in head, one on teeth. Her skin was caramel.Her neck, a spoon dipped in mocha.The collar of her shirt relaxed,while she rolled the paintup and down the wall.A second coat of white,trying to bury the purple.“Who does that?!” She exclaimed,as she fretted with her hairfeathering down onto her lip. I didn’t think she expected an answer,so I didn’t offer one.Probably had been a girl’s room,around fifteen, undecidedif she liked red or blue,so she subconsciously went mixed with them.Her parents could barely affordthis beach house, so she had done with itwhat she could, for this time in being. But it’s Annie’s place now.I am just a sand walker,looking for shells. Intriguedby this caramel woman I sawlugging paint cans into her house. I guess I looked safe; older,thin, with pretended wisdom upon my face.Annie let me in. So many windows, sunlight sentcalm rays into the room.Crackles of sand glitteredupon the ceramic floor-some still gatheredin the shape of toes.Annie didn’t notice, asI placed my foot beside her footprints,pretending we were walking along the shore.-Maybe tomorrow, once she knows mewell enough, if I can stretch out this day. She had sun-tea, some sugar, no ice.And I recalled, there’s that caramel colorthat I can’t avoid.Maybe later, when the sun once againmocks suicide of itself, out on the water,we will pretend the stars are ice,crinkling through our tea glasses,when we hold them up. She’s still rolling, though.I grab the brush and beginto second coat the trim.“You don’t have to do that”, she says.Yet something about the waythe brush glides, wet, slick,covering every inch…I tell her that I enjoy painting. Upon the wall, by the door, a crucifix.Her mom insisted. To bless the housefrom demons and probably sins.Because Annie is still young enoughto partake of christening the houseover and over again, with less thanhonorable men.Summer can be intolerable,without an outlet for her simmering. If she starts talking about her fatherthen I know I am doomed.It means I remind her of him.My fantasy will crash,like an ugly pelican into the ocean.So far, though, she just complainsabout the seagulls shittingon her little wooden porch.Yeah, it’s one of the negativesof a beach house. Butat night they settle down. Two hours of small talk followand long strokes of her paint roller.I glimpse over my hand at her,as I run the brush overthe bedroom door. I peek inside; her bed is smalland I am the tall mast of a sailboat,without the benefit of sailsfilling me out.-There’s always the comfort of spooning,curling, fetal positioned.That faint security we can’t recall,from when we were just infant minded.Subconsciously wanting some form of return. Annie wants to walk the beach.Changes her shirt, to a white blouse.Her areolas unashamed, as they stare at methrough the barely shy veiling.My impulses screaming inside me;I’d marry her today.Divorce in the Autumn, but for nowhoneymoon for ninety days. As we strolled, I found a white feather, drenched,offered to the land-lockedby the generous ocean.I twirled it dry, best I could,then handed it to Annie.Maybe an angel was on its way to her,but fell short, into the sea.So it sent me. Maybe she’s thinking about curtains,or the gasping sound of the old refrigerator.I remind her, because I know the feeling,of how in the morning, the wavesfollow the breeze onto the shore.How the first calls of the seagullsare calm, stretching their wings,waiting for the coming morselsfrom clumsy beach goers. I will take Annie’s clumsiness,if she wants to falterduring our gracefulnessof painting over the purple.These bruised walls, of a fifteen year old’sbroken heart, a summer ago.When her own angel fell into the sea. We trudge through the deep sand,back to the bungalow.“Wanna stay tonight?”, she offers, as she runs the feather over her lips.I don’t think she meant itas […]