She died, lying in an open field, the breeze caressing her thighs beneath a droopy willow.

The last movement she made was gliding her arm under her neck as the sunlight shifted in and out through the branches, gleaming on her pale-coloured skin. Amidst the cloudy scent of lilacs her last breath was a gasp of choking laughter, which filtered eternally through the breeze…

She moved, back and forth through

Their overlapping realities

In the moonlight, whispered

Slowly

Lips; succinctly

Voice sucking through

The brain fog,

Peeling the skin away, Said

I wish I weren’t a masochist, then,

I could have a chance at happiness, That were

Not simply imaginary; And who cares-

What happened next.

In recently reviewing my Grandfather’s obituary, I noticed that my great grandfather’s middle name was Emerson. His name was Ralph Emerson R. I find it odd and rather interesting that my Great Great Grandmother and father named their son after one of my fondest inspirations.

Out of all the people now living or passed in the world, I wish I could have lunch with my Grandfather. And for once, not by his grave. Here, as a tribute I’ll post a picture of your handsome face. RIP gramps. March 1999. I love you very much.

At some point I give up on counting what day is what day is what time where. 

You know… you open your door, shoving the rug out of the way with your feet, hesitantly tipping through the drafty hallway. The second door comes open with a gust of wind, and the outside is utterly vacant and bleak. Not a soul in sight, a car or two scattered along the road unevenly, doors swung open. Not a sign of life in sight. You plunge through the snow, a determined march, smashing them with a vengeance, roll some snow into a ball and throw it against a street sign *clang*, the metal sound reverberates in echoes between the sidings of the seemingly derelict houses. “Where is everybody?” You’ll wonder… couple blocks down, the wine store has been broken into, shards of glass buried under the snow, sharp little edges poking up over the surface.

Sit on your porch for awhile comfortably, some old rickety chair, down feather jacket left hanging on an arched, wooden coat hanger by the doorway. Taking huge pulls off the cigarette, with your breath and the exhaled smoke, cloudy all around. White, crisp and clear….piles of snow on mailboxes, fluffy pillows bending naked branches to the ground. Snow trees, that’s what they’re called. That’s what was decided.

 ”Where is everybody???”

…