Small thing about rain.

That aging alone, so different from its more youthful sister. That aging alone, moves with a speed better kept with quantum physics, or the blurred lines of streetlamps in misting rain.
I heard the sounds of poor piano while walking with a cup of coffee and the hint of tears floating in the frost. Guessing at a window I looked to see eyes over the cover, the keys tinkling arrhythmic. And I was broken. The messy ponytail over dark glasses, pale skin and frayed scarf, staring with sullen grace at some fading poster.
That aging alone, like the horror of weekends spend filling the void with tumbling books, and scratched out phrases; the laughing drunks' eyes pull from directionless places, pull from the room what small comfort can be gained.
Clouded skies obscuring, like music in brightly painted rooms. The back streets empty, save for highlights of voices carried from hidden places. The streets quietly hiding their fidelity to the masses. The lights from rooms and shadows of people moving as dance, as vocalizations telling us that the night is not to be feared, but to be used to raise voices in joyous refrain. And I hear those sounds as my jacket soaks through, my coffee long drained of it's warmth. That aging alone, walking back to a quiet house to stare out of windows, hoping for the sounds of piano on the wind.

Offerings

We wrote those words
on slivers of silver,
leaving them as offering
to the rain.

Watching stacks of ourselves
dispersed by magnetic storms
which leave no trace,
no hint of ash.

We wrote those words
with the patience of saints,
in scribe-like care,
and due attention paid to the void.

Waiting at a distance for the ionized smell of rain,
which will grant us leave
to walk from that place
into the permanence of unknowing.

Of tangled sheets

There are drops of water
disseminating
across my field of vision
as the night sits static
in the stilled winter.

My glove smells of cigarettes
and the faintest whisper
of her perfume.

At the edge of my vision
are drops of water
and the promises of dawn,
moving in sync
with her sleeping breath.

Lamentations of the New Year

Night falls forwards as accustomed
drinks and movements of upbeat arms
and caressing hands
of small kisses
playacting in the movements of clocks.

Again, the promise of another year
stopped.
A glass of motionless water
lying unperturbed
in the listless night.

Finally the morning, sick and alone
the revelry dead,
its body stacked like fading papers
waiting for the thaw.

All the pretty girls

Feels like Paris the last few days. We walked from back streets to the light. We walked with nods and small conversation. I missed her hand, so fragile and warm under colorful mittens. I walked home, alone, and alone again.
She found me sitting there, staring vaguely at glowing boxes, and saying twisting things to mutual friends. Her face reminded me of a film I once saw about Iceland. And so it was that she left, and I stared again at glowing boxes. I'll wait as I miss the corners of her mouth.
Katherine fell too quickly, too soon. Her hair is a blur, her laughter marked in hazy shades of memory. Katherine fell too quickly, and I had to walk away. Staggered, alone, cold, the cigarettes of constellations. My breath was white and hurried as the rain slick streets turned to ice.
Feels like Paris the last few days, I thought, as I shut the door to my lonesome room.

...

Hello guys and gals, just stopping in to tell you to wait with breath, bated or otherwise, for my year/decade in review post! So far I've figured out: The Royal Tenenbaums may be my favorite film of the decade; I'm a very slow novelist; I switched from Scotch, to Vodka, and back to scotch... All that and more... probably tomorrow! Yay! Ugh, I'm such a hack.

Giant Crystal Cave

Do yourself a favor and check out this post about "Cueva de los Cristales - The Giant Crystal Cave". It's really rather beautiful.