her lips like silk
against the smooth skin of my shoulder
as her breath danced along
sending chills down my spine.
She always loved the tone of my laugh, it wasn’t just the sound, she’d say, but the tone. She described it as naked, raw and like a cinema of memories, miracles and glittering geodes. Her eyes would soften and her touch on my stomach was soft and harp strung. I felt far more mortal than she made me out to be, and that was evident in her halo of yellow hair across the pillow. That we laughed through her pain was the only miracle though.
her scent like sunshine
and fresh flowers in a vase
effused my entire being with heady delight
as I lay with eyes closed,
She made me feel strong and capable because she’d hold my hand so tight. Like she needed me. As though I was bringing her hope with the fires I’d start in the old wood stove. Or the dandelions I’d bring in to give a little light and echo to the mourning that was trying to seep in. Or the coffee I’d brew at first light so she could wake up to some aroma other than impending doom. But when she’d silently cry and I’d see the tears running down her cheek it would bring me to my knees and I’d realize how small I really was.
there is crack
like the thick layer of ice
across the pond as she stares at me,
opening up my chest
to expose the tender bits encased within
Sometimes, when I sit on the decrepit, rotting porch, I can see her across that large puddle of water in front of me, just beyond the boat dock. On that big rock reading her books with her knees tucked up under her chin and her skirt lifting up with the little icy breezes that drift by. I want to run across and take her in my arms but I don’t. Our worlds don’t connect that way anymore, she’s in a peaceful place and I’m here in this empty hell. So instead I lay down, close my eyes and let her fetch my soul. I knew she’d never really leave me.
her eyes like rain
on the misty morning
of black and white photos
playing in a stinging loop
in the contours of my soul.
EC is one of my favorites, as a person, a friend and a poet. I may be The Fool, but I’m not fool enough to not know writing with her can only make things better. If you haven’t experienced her art, you’re truly missing out.