This Is a Good-Bye Letter

I don’t want this to be good-bye.

I’ve held on now, no attempt yesterday. I can’t be the one to break the silence. I’ve asked the question. I will wait, or consider myself answered.

But I don’t want this to be good-bye.

I hope this missive is premature. But you never asked me to censor myself ever. It’s always been my blog, my words. You wouldn’t have me stop now. I know you.

I don’t want to look to others to fill that need and frankly, I can’t. There is no one like you.

The burning, aching loss in my chest, that is not there and I don’t know why. I’m in an almost constant state of regret over those who have left me. And yet, I don’t have it.

We always talked about how this was our time. This was when we were what we were and it might not be forever. Surely this is why your mark on my wrist is not making me sad now, on day two without your words.

There will never be another Big Daddy. And I am not sad about that. I don’t want another one. Still, I thought you’d email. I thought you’d email and let loose that truth I thought was lurking, that there was a love there, a different kind of love there that was real. That the man in you did realize his inclination to dominate a girl, although you would never call it that. I know you think of it as protecting, guiding, encouraging, supporting. And that’s what it is. And that’s what a dom is. Or my dom anyway.

There are many things I would never have asked you and many I would. And did. And would again. I trusted there would be a new path to follow. How attractive this path would be, that’s another story.

I often wondered what would become of us. Surely our electronic world would cease to be enough. I knew for myself, it would. And knowing I HAD to please, that it was a vital part of “this”, I was sure I was no longer doing that. But I always thought there would be a way to continue. Imagined meetings, years later, shared milestones.

I can’t imagine not hearing your plans, knowing your quirks, luxuriating in your set ways. I itch to contact you, your carefree smile, your lightweight personality. How will I live without you?

A girl like me could have barely asked for a kinder and more dependable Daddy.

I want you to know that. You were the best. Better than he was as a father and better than he is as a husband. I got what I needed with you.

And for that, I am so grateful. I am proud to wear your mark still.

I will always be yours, your Baby Girl .

Smell & See: A History

rain
comes
drumming,
pulls blue sea
nasal serenade
to this little port town of old
ghosts
like
earthworms
canopy,
black soil break thru
upper space to see history

Eggs III

how to build a proper nest for time…

link, loop like straw, tuck, paper like twine.

foxes and box kites knocking the clime,

Momma’s little yoke,

chichi calcium, nature’s design…

Momma’s baby folk.

***

Another form, the Burns Stanza found here.

Much More Beautiful

Wow.

Big Daddy was right. And SO quickly.

One thing that makes me really happy in life ( something I was reminded of today) is that I can say whatever the FUCK I want.

That’s right.

Right here? This is my place.

And I? I can say whatever I want.

That’s glorious! Big Daddy never asks me to censor myself. He is secure in who he is, naturally dominant. He knows that words are the VERY most important thing to me. And to restrict them would be death.

I would die inside.

And I want to shine.

I am much more beautiful when I shine.

End of a Day

“Mommy!”

He kept them up last night till I got home from overtime. It was like heaven.

“Mommy! Mommy! I got all smiley faces!!”

“Mommmmmeeee mommmeeeee potty!”

She with the blackish brown eyes ran at me and hugged my belly.

The LittleOne ran at me and hugged my legs. A blond and brown pony tail met my eyes as I looked down at my babies, my growing, loving babies that I created. I carried. I care for.

“Ok, back here to finish your stories.” My Love is beaming from the bed, knowing he did a nice, RIGHT thing, proud of himself for lasting ONE MORE DAY as a single dad while I work the 7 to 7 overtime. More money for our struggling family. The little pony tails bounce back to the bed. They climb up, but still face me, chattering like sparrows.

“Mommy, I have a splinter you need to get out.” She with the blackish brown eyes shows me her soft palm, with a tiny sliver of wood in it. My heart soars. I AM the one who deals with splinters. He can’t take it, but moms have to do the things that cause pain to create healing.

“Booboo! Booboo!” Not to be outdone, The LittleOne shows me a fresh shin bruise that I simply must kiss immediately.

Off to get the tweezers, my eyes fill a little. Yes, I’m tired (boy there should be a different word for HOW tired), so a little emotion is predictable.

But really, it was honest joy. Look at all my gifts…

The Actress

Trying to balance
The doing
And the writing
About the doing
 
Not many
Stories left
That I can
Tell myself
I love being anyone else but me
 
Maybe I need to change a dose
I pull tides of bitterness
Like an evil moon
If I chance submersion
You chance
Being exposed
To my new form
 
Demand the moon
Get the cheese
Please God
Please say
I’m like no other
 
Cracker jack idea
When we’re all alone
What’s my prize
For digging down deep
No cereal box treasure map
To happy
I’ll make something of nothing
And get back to you
 
All new plans
Point at and laugh
The old new plans
Couldn’t I exhale and be better?

Growing Babies

Of the human garden
Its equal opportunity
Fertile
 
Short mercy
Glory
Swallow and dissolve
 
Striations
Ruby bullets
Tells
 
Capacity to know
Less successful at forgetting.
 
You want them to be silly hearts

Warm April

Boats back
On the dock
Rubbing sleepy eyes

To Not Look Back

The crows, floating

With the wire

Black licorice

Under their claws

Beseeched not to pause

The south, they went

For He Whose I Am

The bus had been 19 hours and 12 minutes of wasted time.

“What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know. I obviously wasn’t thinking, judging by your reaction.”
“Go home.”
“Okay.”

She was now seated on the bench at the bus station, under the pretense of waiting for the next bus. In her hands, she held the pocket watch.

“That one.”
“This one? Miss, this one is an expensive watch.”
“I know.”
“Ok. Cash or charge?”
“Is it extra to engrave?”
“No, Miss. It’s complimentary. I will get you a sheet of paper.”

For he whose I am.

Counting her money again, she hesitated from buying a ticket. Why did she think he would come and stop her? Just because she came so far? Held back this long, her tears were heavy, overripe and finally fell like devastating bombs on the dry skin of her hands.

Feeling better after her cry, she stood up with purpose to buy her ticket and return home. She would write the whole thing off as an experience, an adventure, and fodder for her work. Maybe she would even get a book out of it…

“Violet!” Then, he was there.