I’m over it.
How could I not be?
How could you not be?
Time has passed.
Years have gone.
Move on.
From me,
From that life.
We are no longer “we.”
You are you.
I am me.
Let us be
As we were.
Happy,
Separately.
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Poetry
poem, writing, poetry, drabble
Nineteen Months
By Amy Brunson
The first night
Pizza on the stairs
Surrounded by
boxes
And the unfamiliar sound
Of being
Alone
The ceiling above the bed
Telling me
This is it.
You are
Here
Now
A place filled with memories
None of them belonging
Nineteen months
Could have had two babies
But instead
Nine lovers
The mother
Three skeletons
Five neighbors
A handful of friends
One ghost.
Now I see
This place held me
Weeping into wine glasses
Dancing in the nude
Laughing on the phone
Fucking on the floor
Mourning the past
Fearing the future and
Thanking the present for itself.
Diaphanous
By TN Kerr
When the light is just right, I can see her sometimes.
Expectant at the top of the cliff; leaning forward while
the wind swirls wisps of her dark hair behind her.
She stares out to sea.
One legend says that she waits for her lover
to return.
Another tells that she wants to leave.
I’m old now and I see her less often than before, but
she’s still there. Just after sunrise,
just before sunset.
When the light is just right, I see her sometimes.
I’ve Grown Accustomed to my Face
By johnlmalone
I’ve grown accustomed to my face.
I wear it all over the place.
I wear it by god’s grace.
Though it’s not to everyone’s taste
It has a certain fan base,
Like ‘Arsenic and Old Lace.’
Accustomed. To my face.
There’s not a feature I’d erase:
No smirk, wrinkle or grimace
In this time-chiselled face.
There is surely then no disgrace
In multiplying this face
On the screen at my partner’s place.
I’ve grown accustomed to my face.
Accustomed. To my face.
Quatrain of Darker Thought
By pencernakata
this mind of mine, now lurks in the shadow
where words used to flock and overflow
thoughts of wanting, thoughts of leaving
thoughts of longing for what’s worth knowing
oh how I want to disappear
for I can no longer persevere
I’ve been plagued with all this craving
with the yearning and not belonging
when the truth is somewhere out there
all I’ll ever find is despair
I hope my prayers reach you likely
for they never find the almighty
Granddaughter Outside after the Rain Stops
By Robin Wright
Alisha, spindles of sun splashing her hair with light, runs,
bare feet tickled by a gauze of freshly washed grass, stops,
scoops gravel with hands soft as ice cream.
She devours this freedom like it’s a final candy-coated
meal. Unfettered by shoes, or car-seat straps,
no adult whisking her from harm.
She runs again, sails like a bright red kite,
ruffling on the wind’s lacy gusts, until she drops
into exhaustion’s arms.
Robin Wright’s work has appeared in Ariel Chart, Bindweed Magazine, Muddy River Poetry Review, Rat’s Ass Review, Peacock Journal, and others.
Sunday Afternoon In Rattlesnake Canyon
By M. Thomas Ellis
Halfway down
I leaned against an old oak
unduly envious of it
and so much more.
I looked up
waited for an autumn leaf to fall
just one for me to focus on
but in its own time.
I was prepared to watch it tumble
end over brittle end
down to the creek below
curious what might happen next.
A breeze coaxed
the right leaf fell
I watched it catch the current
and drift out of sight.
You will always be my muse.
