She begins to realize an alternate reality existed in the spaces between his hand and hers. In another day, in another life perhaps their fingers could have met clasped tight around the constant whispers and all the "what if"s.
writing
oasis
poetrySometimes the words come freely,
a flash flood that flows
for weeks on end –
fed by the tears that trail
down the pale cheeks of loneliness.
Other times, the words are trapped;
tangled in cords of decay and rot –
until they are suffocated,
buried and forgotten
among the other things I safely destroyed.
Boreal
poetryAs the light recedes into the horizon,
the north wind seep through
cracks in the window
and slits in the door.
My toes are cold
against the bedroom floor,
and I wonder when
my blood will unthaw,
and when
I might feel the light
once again.
exulansis 