Awake to a Nightmare

Cold dark pain.

Aging, I am weak and alone.

Hopelessness holds hands with helplessness.

I lay and wait for peace.

This is how I fight.

And everybody scorns it.


Diary Entry 2/4

The start of suffering. The suffocating rising panic. The heartache too heavy to bear. My face distorted in the mirror. Touch burns fingerprints on my raw skin. A longing for that which is lost. Lost. You are no longer. No longer here to wrap my wounds in healing white bandages of comfort. My heavy head leans into a missing shoulder. My back arches for a warmth that has disappeared. I face this dark narrow hallway alone. Reaching for a hand that is too far to reach. My hand falls through decades of pain. It returns to my side empty and cold.

His Checkered Shirt

It had slipped behind the couch in a long forgotten passion. Crumpled into a corner of cat hair and superfluous cigarette papers. She came across it while vacuuming the past out of the carpet, a punishment, a penance, a relief. As the vacuum squealed and choked on its greedy meal she rushed to the shirts rescue, drawing it slowly from the machines throat like a magicians never ending scarf.

She gathered the crumpled shirt into a ball, meaning to add it to the ordered pile by the door, but the familiar feel of the fabric, softened by wear, caused her to hesitate. Guiltily darting into the half emptied wardrobe, she daringly pressing her nose and mouth into the folds. A bold attack of scent and memory flew through her and she stifled an animal cry.