Hmmm. I sat down to write and Jacob just told me to go get dressed. He has plans for me, he says. Something about the third day of August and his love of planning elaborate romantic surprises makes me vaguely nervous.
I sat down to write to you that I heard via the boy-grapevine that Loch and Kiera have come to some agreements and arrangements and he won't go down in flames as the biggest asshole that ever lived. It's good news all the way around and no, I won't be having any contact with him any time soon.
So, I'm off, wish me luck and if you know what Jacob is up to, I'll deal with you later.
Thursday, 2 August 2007
Just dessert.
I choose to live and to lie
Kill and give and to die
Learn and love and to do
What it takes to step through
Last night Jacob asked me to do a lapdance for him. His fingers over his lips, he half covered his dimples in his shy smile, his eyes spilling over with mischief. He turned a little unsure on me and kissed me thoroughly before whispering that it had been a while since I gave him a 'dance.'
Geez, it has. Like two months.
He went into the den. He put Forty Six & 2 on the stereo. I ran upstairs and put on a cute camisole and matching boyshorts and came back down, stopping to visit the fridge on my way.
Then I climbed into his lap and handed him a can of whipped cream. The smile on his face spread like a wildfire. He has such a sweet tooth. And we had skipped dessert.
We woke up sticky, gritty and exhausted this morning after what probably amounted to three hours sleep. Jacob kissed my gummy, dirty cheeks and suggested that tonight we try the freezies.
What a wicked idea.
It will help cool the marks he left on my shoulders. He doesn't know his own strength, especially in the throes of a sugar rush of the best kind.
Kill and give and to die
Learn and love and to do
What it takes to step through
Last night Jacob asked me to do a lapdance for him. His fingers over his lips, he half covered his dimples in his shy smile, his eyes spilling over with mischief. He turned a little unsure on me and kissed me thoroughly before whispering that it had been a while since I gave him a 'dance.'
Geez, it has. Like two months.
He went into the den. He put Forty Six & 2 on the stereo. I ran upstairs and put on a cute camisole and matching boyshorts and came back down, stopping to visit the fridge on my way.
Then I climbed into his lap and handed him a can of whipped cream. The smile on his face spread like a wildfire. He has such a sweet tooth. And we had skipped dessert.
We woke up sticky, gritty and exhausted this morning after what probably amounted to three hours sleep. Jacob kissed my gummy, dirty cheeks and suggested that tonight we try the freezies.
What a wicked idea.
It will help cool the marks he left on my shoulders. He doesn't know his own strength, especially in the throes of a sugar rush of the best kind.
Wednesday, 1 August 2007
On boys and sharing.
Jacob surprised me last evening. I stopped working on deciphering Prince Caspian on the piano and came into the kitchen to help with dinner. He was almost finished in his preparations, packing the picnic basket and pulling out a bottle of wine. I looked at him curiously and he smiled and asked me if I wanted to go have a picnic in the park since the heat finally broke.
What a great idea. Dinner is usually pretty low-key or in a diner somewhere, sometimes it's a drive-by iced tea in front of the fridge since the kids aren't here.
He smiled and took the basket and my hand and we were off.
When we arrived and parked the truck, Jacob again took my hand again and then asked me to show him Cole's bench. I walked him there and when he saw the marker he said a quiet hello to Cole and then sat down and asked him if he wouldn't mind if we spent our dinner hour here. And then he passed me a glass and smiled a gentle smile that said he was doing this for me and nothing but.
We ate, we talked about things, about the kids and the upcoming autumn and when the heck we're supposed to get back to the cottage for some good memories and we talked about friends and what that means and what my plans are after my latest work is complete. We talked about how much Jake is looking forward to his new job and how we're going to deal with the new routine and Jacob being gone during the days. Normal conversations. Like normal people have. Like we used to have before everything became life or death struggles, before Bridget lost her mind and stopped pretending she was fine.
We talked about everything and Cole's memory sat beneath us like an unanswered echo across a canyon. We didn't acknowledge him again until sunset, when we were ready to leave. When we stood up, Jacob pulled a stray hairpin from my braid and reached down, pushing it straight down into the ground at my feet, beside the bench. He said that he'd promised to love me and take care of me forever and he was going to do just that, but he could stand to give a little bit to Cole to keep.
If you knew Jacob, he has a thing for my hairpins, this wasn't an idle gesture.
In other words, he's decided to share. To let me talk about Cole again. God, sometimes I need to talk about Cole. To let me feel things, good or bad. To get through this instead of shoving it away, hiding it, pretending it isn't real.
Jacob can do that because Cole can't hurt me any more and because Jacob just figured that out. The threats are gone. This gesture was more to show me that he (Jacob) won't hurt me anymore either. I am the bond that they will share forever, and the kids are our legacy of three and these two men who can evoke the same feelings but be the complete opposites of one another, well, sometimes...
Sometimes they both leave me speechless.
What a great idea. Dinner is usually pretty low-key or in a diner somewhere, sometimes it's a drive-by iced tea in front of the fridge since the kids aren't here.
He smiled and took the basket and my hand and we were off.
When we arrived and parked the truck, Jacob again took my hand again and then asked me to show him Cole's bench. I walked him there and when he saw the marker he said a quiet hello to Cole and then sat down and asked him if he wouldn't mind if we spent our dinner hour here. And then he passed me a glass and smiled a gentle smile that said he was doing this for me and nothing but.
We ate, we talked about things, about the kids and the upcoming autumn and when the heck we're supposed to get back to the cottage for some good memories and we talked about friends and what that means and what my plans are after my latest work is complete. We talked about how much Jake is looking forward to his new job and how we're going to deal with the new routine and Jacob being gone during the days. Normal conversations. Like normal people have. Like we used to have before everything became life or death struggles, before Bridget lost her mind and stopped pretending she was fine.
We talked about everything and Cole's memory sat beneath us like an unanswered echo across a canyon. We didn't acknowledge him again until sunset, when we were ready to leave. When we stood up, Jacob pulled a stray hairpin from my braid and reached down, pushing it straight down into the ground at my feet, beside the bench. He said that he'd promised to love me and take care of me forever and he was going to do just that, but he could stand to give a little bit to Cole to keep.
If you knew Jacob, he has a thing for my hairpins, this wasn't an idle gesture.
In other words, he's decided to share. To let me talk about Cole again. God, sometimes I need to talk about Cole. To let me feel things, good or bad. To get through this instead of shoving it away, hiding it, pretending it isn't real.
Jacob can do that because Cole can't hurt me any more and because Jacob just figured that out. The threats are gone. This gesture was more to show me that he (Jacob) won't hurt me anymore either. I am the bond that they will share forever, and the kids are our legacy of three and these two men who can evoke the same feelings but be the complete opposites of one another, well, sometimes...
Sometimes they both leave me speechless.
Tuesday, 31 July 2007
Loneliest girl in the world.
Ben brought me a new CD (Actually it's an EP) that I fell in love with so instantly I haven't crashed back to earth yet. And some advice from a friend who has bounced back and forth between good friend and bitter enemy so many times I might give him a new nickname. He's long grown out of being called Tucker Max, I guess.
Sitting on the hammock while he sat on the floor throwing Jacob's guitar out of tune and being very mature and unBenlike I realized that he's changed. That he's learned from his mistakes and that he's a grownup boy now, with proper limits and a firm distinction between right and wrong, that our friendship meant more to him than a potential one-off. Unless he's biding his gentle time and hiding things well, but I would know. This new and improved Ben had a lot of very intelligent and introspective things to say to me and I listened.
Full circles have been drawn. Ones that get erased when they are complete because there's nowhere for us to go. And Ben is right as he draws a disparaging picture of himself and of the rest of the boys. We're outgrowing each other, these friendships are no longer sound and no longer holding up the way they did when we needed to lean on each other so heavily that what was once a godsend is now a curse of history. There's too much water under their Bridget now and she can't support their weight.
He is right. This almost never happens. But it still makes me so horribly sad, because instead of Jacob asking me to choose and instead of me doing what I know is right and letting them go, instead they're going to let go of me, one at a time. I know it. I can feel it and I know it's the right thing to do.
Sitting on the hammock while he sat on the floor throwing Jacob's guitar out of tune and being very mature and unBenlike I realized that he's changed. That he's learned from his mistakes and that he's a grownup boy now, with proper limits and a firm distinction between right and wrong, that our friendship meant more to him than a potential one-off. Unless he's biding his gentle time and hiding things well, but I would know. This new and improved Ben had a lot of very intelligent and introspective things to say to me and I listened.
Full circles have been drawn. Ones that get erased when they are complete because there's nowhere for us to go. And Ben is right as he draws a disparaging picture of himself and of the rest of the boys. We're outgrowing each other, these friendships are no longer sound and no longer holding up the way they did when we needed to lean on each other so heavily that what was once a godsend is now a curse of history. There's too much water under their Bridget now and she can't support their weight.
He is right. This almost never happens. But it still makes me so horribly sad, because instead of Jacob asking me to choose and instead of me doing what I know is right and letting them go, instead they're going to let go of me, one at a time. I know it. I can feel it and I know it's the right thing to do.
The last time I'll write about that weekend.
Then I defy you stars.
Most of the moments we share don't involve arguments anymore. We've surpassed the bitterness and talked this to death. We've made concessions and bared our souls. He called me Medusa and I promptly knocked him right off his high horse, exposing his hypocrisy in his claim of wanting me, and only me. Jacob, in his actions, confesses his role on earth as mortal at last. A regular human man merely wrapped in angel wings for his disguise. I knew it all along and I'm relieved.
That brought a whole 'nother round of swearing because once again, I failed to see the point. I read too much into it. There's no emotional connection. He doesn't need or want her the way he needs me. What's missing there is the obsession, the single-minded consummation of his heart and his thoughts. With me. His heart was not in his betrayal.
And I will make this one single allowance for the brief loss of his mind. Tremendous pressure in an upsidedown world and even the most Godly and perfect of angels sometimes falls from grace. The issues with wanting, and losing our baby sent him into a tailspin I failed to recognize, so busy with my own neverending grief I didn't see that he was sharing it and I had shut him out. This I know, without a doubt. He never dealt with it sufficiently and it came back to bite him in the ass and then, in his shame, he hid all of it from me. Because we had larger, more suicidal issues to deal with, to be blunt. Those issues appear to be resolving, and so it brings in space to deal with everything else.
I still trust him.
He makes this allowance for me because I showed him that deep inside I still have some rage left and he's so happy to see that I haven't given up or given in, that I could get away with just about anything, but I won't.
He still trusts me.
A year ago, or even five, it would have been a different outcome. But after death and violence and a thousand soul-destroying/building conversations, at the end of the day, infidelity is not going to be our deal breaker.
Not this time. Again, sure. Are we back in counseling? Unfortunately yes. We've got some other things to deal with anyway. The nice overpriced professional series, not the coffee shop/favor series. Maybe you get what you pay for. We have to give things a chance. Maybe we're being tested with so many false starts and epic human tragedies because we're meant for greater things. I always believed Jacob was. Me? I'm not so sure, but I'm in this for the long haul. We chose to make a family out of this mess and we haven't quite figured it all out yet but we will.
I try to maintain how human we are, not as an excuse to fall but as a reminder that people are impulsive and driven by so much more than logic. I've never shied away from talking about Jacob's dry temper and legendary patience tempered with perfection. I've never glossed over the fistfights and dramas and wars over me that he has waged. I've certainly never made any effort to disguise the frailty of my heart or mind here anytime since Cole's death.
What would be the point?
Sunday we let it all go, at last.
Yesterday we resolved to enjoy the remainder of our kid-free vacation and upcoming anniversary to the fullest. Our first wedding anniversary is on Sunday and Ruth and Henry return on Monday. That gives us six days to work our way back to lovestruck, a little older and wiser than before. It gives us time to relax beside each other, secure in the newfound comforts of his imperfections and my remaining stabilities. We tested our bond and it held and yet we were both sufficiently freaked out to not ever test it like that again. It's a risk we've come to decide we're simply not willing to take ever again.
Now we go back to starry eyes and declarations without a single shred of credibility and it's fine, because this time no one else is allowed to weigh in. We'll do it our way instead of the way everyone else thinks we should do it. And maybe this time we'll get it right. Such a long and colorful history of stabbing each other in the back exquisitely, I could write for a million years and never tell it all. Eventually we'll get it right.
After all, we've never gotten closer to heaven than we are right now, and this was by far the easiest time we have had with honesty and patience for each other's faults. That, in itself, is outstanding.
That is what keeps hope burning bright. That's what keeps Bridget and Jacob going. That stupid light at the end of the longest tunnel I think I've ever traveled.
Most of the moments we share don't involve arguments anymore. We've surpassed the bitterness and talked this to death. We've made concessions and bared our souls. He called me Medusa and I promptly knocked him right off his high horse, exposing his hypocrisy in his claim of wanting me, and only me. Jacob, in his actions, confesses his role on earth as mortal at last. A regular human man merely wrapped in angel wings for his disguise. I knew it all along and I'm relieved.
That brought a whole 'nother round of swearing because once again, I failed to see the point. I read too much into it. There's no emotional connection. He doesn't need or want her the way he needs me. What's missing there is the obsession, the single-minded consummation of his heart and his thoughts. With me. His heart was not in his betrayal.
And I will make this one single allowance for the brief loss of his mind. Tremendous pressure in an upsidedown world and even the most Godly and perfect of angels sometimes falls from grace. The issues with wanting, and losing our baby sent him into a tailspin I failed to recognize, so busy with my own neverending grief I didn't see that he was sharing it and I had shut him out. This I know, without a doubt. He never dealt with it sufficiently and it came back to bite him in the ass and then, in his shame, he hid all of it from me. Because we had larger, more suicidal issues to deal with, to be blunt. Those issues appear to be resolving, and so it brings in space to deal with everything else.
I still trust him.
He makes this allowance for me because I showed him that deep inside I still have some rage left and he's so happy to see that I haven't given up or given in, that I could get away with just about anything, but I won't.
He still trusts me.
A year ago, or even five, it would have been a different outcome. But after death and violence and a thousand soul-destroying/building conversations, at the end of the day, infidelity is not going to be our deal breaker.
Not this time. Again, sure. Are we back in counseling? Unfortunately yes. We've got some other things to deal with anyway. The nice overpriced professional series, not the coffee shop/favor series. Maybe you get what you pay for. We have to give things a chance. Maybe we're being tested with so many false starts and epic human tragedies because we're meant for greater things. I always believed Jacob was. Me? I'm not so sure, but I'm in this for the long haul. We chose to make a family out of this mess and we haven't quite figured it all out yet but we will.
I try to maintain how human we are, not as an excuse to fall but as a reminder that people are impulsive and driven by so much more than logic. I've never shied away from talking about Jacob's dry temper and legendary patience tempered with perfection. I've never glossed over the fistfights and dramas and wars over me that he has waged. I've certainly never made any effort to disguise the frailty of my heart or mind here anytime since Cole's death.
What would be the point?
Sunday we let it all go, at last.
Yesterday we resolved to enjoy the remainder of our kid-free vacation and upcoming anniversary to the fullest. Our first wedding anniversary is on Sunday and Ruth and Henry return on Monday. That gives us six days to work our way back to lovestruck, a little older and wiser than before. It gives us time to relax beside each other, secure in the newfound comforts of his imperfections and my remaining stabilities. We tested our bond and it held and yet we were both sufficiently freaked out to not ever test it like that again. It's a risk we've come to decide we're simply not willing to take ever again.
Now we go back to starry eyes and declarations without a single shred of credibility and it's fine, because this time no one else is allowed to weigh in. We'll do it our way instead of the way everyone else thinks we should do it. And maybe this time we'll get it right. Such a long and colorful history of stabbing each other in the back exquisitely, I could write for a million years and never tell it all. Eventually we'll get it right.
After all, we've never gotten closer to heaven than we are right now, and this was by far the easiest time we have had with honesty and patience for each other's faults. That, in itself, is outstanding.
That is what keeps hope burning bright. That's what keeps Bridget and Jacob going. That stupid light at the end of the longest tunnel I think I've ever traveled.
Monday, 30 July 2007
Bryte ideas.
Here's a passive-aggressive train of thought.
I wish, as I sit here and try to slog through changes (professionally and figuratively) I wish....
I wish Jon Foreman would cover some Nick Drake songs. Like Road.
That would be awesome.
I wish, as I sit here and try to slog through changes (professionally and figuratively) I wish....
I wish Jon Foreman would cover some Nick Drake songs. Like Road.
That would be awesome.
I don't know what this is.
We drove and drove and drove until we hit water I couldn't find the end of. You stopped and turned off the truck and then turned your upper body to lean against your door and you looked at me and I stared straight ahead, amused and a little pissed off that you cut off the one song I need on repeat these days and you told me it wasn't a very good song anyway. We both know you were lying just like you lie about all kinds of little insignificant things that might make you appear too relaxed and too permissive. Or too beautiful for words. People were never supposed to be so flawless or there would be too much claustrophobia.
You scowled at the tears that followed, such an immature response to the sudden unwelcome silence. Instead of sympathy you offered adventure and instead of wallowing I chose risk and I followed you into the water in my dress that I couldn't hold on to and the cotton drank the lake until I was soaked to my waist and you laughed and told me to take it off, that no one would care but I cared and instead I decided I would take it off later in the truck.
We walked until the parts in our hair were pink and painful and our freckles stood out (but only in the summer) and our eyes were blind to the shadows and blasted with rays that seek to melt us down into basic liquid human forms, with condiments of beauty and pain, served in matching tiny bowls, flavor how you like it. We tasted all of them, never finding one that pleased.
You kissed the salt from my lips and the tears from my cheeks and you swore ugly words right in my face and let me see the hate in your blue eyes for what I am and then maybe you lied some more.
A man with broken wings
I hold no blame against you like a lover for your honesty and no sadness for the truth of what this means. I am aware that you have asked for the thought as it arrives into my head but then it escapes from my mouth before my brain can capture it and keep it safe to avoid scarring you.
There is no competition here, my angel. Nothing to fear except for my runaway heart and it's your boomerang that you've lovingly shaped while I wasn't ever looking or even aware. While I daydreamed in my deafness, while I slept. You prayed and fought for the ownership of a loaded gun and you don't even know how to work it but you're learning and with few mistakes and a little bit of fear and blood you have discovered, to your delight, to your dismay, that you are still alive.
While I slept, you promised yourself you would learn.
With determination you drove all night and most of the next day to find a place where the water met the horizon and then you watched me unravel like a ribbon and fall apart. When it happened you were so surprised at the bang for your buck, the magnitude of what lies inside of the smallest packages, of what rage and fear and terror and pain looks like bottled inside of something so beautiful. Is it more or less real than holding it all in? Would it be better served hurriedly and distracted to lessen the strength of it, diluted with noise and mindless, endless tasks that help no one?
I only said he would have loved that song and it was too much for you and so you took out all of your remaining frustrations and poured them over me like a cold shower and I let you, I let you see how frail I really am.
We talked until we ran out of words. And then we walked until our legs could carry us no further before you turned and took my face in your hands and you told me we'd do it anyway. We'd keep walking beside each other, even though you said it was harder to be together than it ever was to be apart. Hard in a different way and I know what you mean, I really do.
We drove home in the blue-black night, the silence pushing into the truck and crowding us out, my still-wet dress plastered to me, making me smaller and more pathetic while you followed the yellow line south until we saw familiar markers and you never looked at me while I hit repeat fifty times on the stereo but I watched you as you mouthed the words to the song in the dark because you didn't think I was ever paying attention.
I am. And I know you love that song because it's about me.
And the bed that we're sharing
Is the home that I want to bring you
Want to feel you
I don't want to hear you
You scowled at the tears that followed, such an immature response to the sudden unwelcome silence. Instead of sympathy you offered adventure and instead of wallowing I chose risk and I followed you into the water in my dress that I couldn't hold on to and the cotton drank the lake until I was soaked to my waist and you laughed and told me to take it off, that no one would care but I cared and instead I decided I would take it off later in the truck.
We walked until the parts in our hair were pink and painful and our freckles stood out (but only in the summer) and our eyes were blind to the shadows and blasted with rays that seek to melt us down into basic liquid human forms, with condiments of beauty and pain, served in matching tiny bowls, flavor how you like it. We tasted all of them, never finding one that pleased.
You kissed the salt from my lips and the tears from my cheeks and you swore ugly words right in my face and let me see the hate in your blue eyes for what I am and then maybe you lied some more.
A man with broken wings
I hold no blame against you like a lover for your honesty and no sadness for the truth of what this means. I am aware that you have asked for the thought as it arrives into my head but then it escapes from my mouth before my brain can capture it and keep it safe to avoid scarring you.
There is no competition here, my angel. Nothing to fear except for my runaway heart and it's your boomerang that you've lovingly shaped while I wasn't ever looking or even aware. While I daydreamed in my deafness, while I slept. You prayed and fought for the ownership of a loaded gun and you don't even know how to work it but you're learning and with few mistakes and a little bit of fear and blood you have discovered, to your delight, to your dismay, that you are still alive.
While I slept, you promised yourself you would learn.
With determination you drove all night and most of the next day to find a place where the water met the horizon and then you watched me unravel like a ribbon and fall apart. When it happened you were so surprised at the bang for your buck, the magnitude of what lies inside of the smallest packages, of what rage and fear and terror and pain looks like bottled inside of something so beautiful. Is it more or less real than holding it all in? Would it be better served hurriedly and distracted to lessen the strength of it, diluted with noise and mindless, endless tasks that help no one?
I only said he would have loved that song and it was too much for you and so you took out all of your remaining frustrations and poured them over me like a cold shower and I let you, I let you see how frail I really am.
We talked until we ran out of words. And then we walked until our legs could carry us no further before you turned and took my face in your hands and you told me we'd do it anyway. We'd keep walking beside each other, even though you said it was harder to be together than it ever was to be apart. Hard in a different way and I know what you mean, I really do.
We drove home in the blue-black night, the silence pushing into the truck and crowding us out, my still-wet dress plastered to me, making me smaller and more pathetic while you followed the yellow line south until we saw familiar markers and you never looked at me while I hit repeat fifty times on the stereo but I watched you as you mouthed the words to the song in the dark because you didn't think I was ever paying attention.
I am. And I know you love that song because it's about me.
And the bed that we're sharing
Is the home that I want to bring you
Want to feel you
I don't want to hear you
Sunday, 29 July 2007
The most fitting word-tattoo I sport. Phoning it in today. Have a good one.
frag∑ile (frjl, -l)
adj.
1. Easily broken, damaged, or destroyed; frail.
2. Lacking physical or emotional strength; delicate.
3. Lacking substance; tenuous or flimsy: a fragile claim to fame.
[French, from Old French, from Latin fragilis, from frangere, frag-, to break; see bhreg- in Indo-European roots.]
fragile∑ly adv.
fra∑gili∑ty (fr-jl-t), fragile∑ness n.
Synonyms: fragile, breakable, frangible, delicate, brittle
These adjectives mean easily broken or damaged. Fragile applies to objects that are not made of strong or sturdy material and that require great care when handled: fragile porcelain plates.
Breakable and frangible mean capable of being broken but do not necessarily imply inherent weakness: breakable toys; frangible artifacts.
Delicate refers to what is so soft, tender, or fine as to be susceptible to injury: delicate fruit.
Brittle refers to inelasticity that makes something especially likely to fracture or snap when it is subjected to pressure: brittle bones. See Also Synonyms at weak.
frag∑ile (frjl, -l)
adj.
1. Easily broken, damaged, or destroyed; frail.
2. Lacking physical or emotional strength; delicate.
3. Lacking substance; tenuous or flimsy: a fragile claim to fame.
[French, from Old French, from Latin fragilis, from frangere, frag-, to break; see bhreg- in Indo-European roots.]
fragile∑ly adv.
fra∑gili∑ty (fr-jl-t), fragile∑ness n.
Synonyms: fragile, breakable, frangible, delicate, brittle
These adjectives mean easily broken or damaged. Fragile applies to objects that are not made of strong or sturdy material and that require great care when handled: fragile porcelain plates.
Breakable and frangible mean capable of being broken but do not necessarily imply inherent weakness: breakable toys; frangible artifacts.
Delicate refers to what is so soft, tender, or fine as to be susceptible to injury: delicate fruit.
Brittle refers to inelasticity that makes something especially likely to fracture or snap when it is subjected to pressure: brittle bones. See Also Synonyms at weak.
Saturday, 28 July 2007
Warm and sleepy Saturdays.
He's singing again. Progress.
I woke up to Iron & Wine this morning, coffee on a tray on the bed and a big handsome blonde man with a short fuzzy beard and a smile in his eyes singing to me while he played his guitar. I knew him from my sleepy fog by the ring he wore. It matched mine.
Some days her shape in the doorway
Will speak to me
A bird's wing up on the window
Sometimes I'll hear when she's sleeping
Her fever dream
A language on her face
I woke up to Iron & Wine this morning, coffee on a tray on the bed and a big handsome blonde man with a short fuzzy beard and a smile in his eyes singing to me while he played his guitar. I knew him from my sleepy fog by the ring he wore. It matched mine.
Some days her shape in the doorway
Will speak to me
A bird's wing up on the window
Sometimes I'll hear when she's sleeping
Her fever dream
A language on her face
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