The sun had already set as she walked past the sandy shores, the wind blowing away her oversized red flannel shirt and pulling at her long, tangled hair, sending goosebumps down the bare legs draped only in a part of cotton shorts, a risky outfit for this kind of early Autumn weather. Not that she cared really, but rather welcomed it being the strange conundrum that she had been all her life.

She watched the sky as it still held some light in all its fading out-glory - turquoise green with a tint of blue shades, romancing away with deep blushing pinks - burning auburn oranges waiting to take over as soon as the night would lose its power to the dawn. She walked for what seemed like an endless journey - maybe it was an hour, maybe three, she wasn't sure. All that she knew was that she needed it; setting her mind into a more peaceful state that held place for her to write, or maybe even paint - she smiled at the thought.

The waves crashed softly against each other as they moved around with the powerful arms of the wind that seemed to want to have control over everything in its reach, moving to some peculiar yet beautiful kind of dance that was for her to witness. She smiled at the sight, at the same time feeling more goosebumps creep up her skin. Automatically, she wrapped the soft, worn-out shirt around her. And as she did so, she thought of the arms that always brought her warmth. She thought of the long fingers that intertwined around hers in a way that always left her lost for words. In the best possible way.

She looked up at the lights from the small houses and a few hotels spread around the beach and searched for the one place that actually mattered. All of them were beautiful, especially at a night like this, filled with the breathtaking spectacle provided by Mother Nature herself, filled with the wind, the waves, and with that one-of-a-kind breeze from the ocean. A combination that she could never resist, and never wanted to refuse. She looked up again and lifted her hand over her eyes, trying to see better through the darkness and the wind constantly pushing locks of her hair into her face. She squinted her eyes, concentrating, and smiled with relief as a small silhouette appeared in the distance, getting gradually bigger with each moment. A relief that could only appear in the presence of your home - that one person on earth meant only for you.

She ran up slightly, with a smile that held some guilt to it. The person lifted their hand in the air and waved it as if letting her know they were approaching. She watched the other woman shake her head as if being both amused and slightly annoyed - a famous combination for them both.

I thought you said, "Just one hour to clear my mind, just enough to not become crazier than usual". Wasn't that the agreement, woman? Or does one hour mean something a little different in your original, native tongue?

Okay, first of all, don't get smart with me. And second, what I said before was an assumption, darling. You know, I don't wear a watch.

Well, it's something that I'm still working on. I know that one day, I will make you see the right way.

She shakes her head but doesn't comment, instead she comes close and wraps an arm around her home, letting her hand move around her waist and rests her head on the other woman's chest. Listening to the symphony of a heart that brought her the most peace. Her love grumbles something under her breath, but holds her close in return.

Come on, let's get back before you catch a cold. I ordered some takeaway and opened a bottle of red, the one that you liked so much the last time around.

Well then. I expected punishment and a lecture. No bribery, darling.

Well, as you always say, "one does not stop the other".

That's fair.

She whispers and lets her love lead her back to their little beach house while the sky darkens its colors, deepening the turquoise and pink shade even more, shyly inviting bright points of light and reason to the spectacle, while a delicate crescent moon shows them the way back. She smiles at all the majestic beauty above her head and thanks the universe for the gift that it brought them. A gift that somehow always let them find their way back to each other. Each time for longer until reality became them always in skin's reach, at an arm's length, and close enough to feel the breath of one another when their souls would whisper the loudest. She watches as her love walks into their place, all lights already on, filling the space with warmth, showing off all the corners and surfaces that their love occupied so well, so naturally.

Just a beautiful, perfectly messy existence they accepted into their lives, something that they waited for what seemed like so many lifetimes. A blessing that they welcomed with gratitude that held no limits.

She takes one more look at the darkening skies now so graciously filled with stars, and inhales deeper as the wind intensifies, causing the waves to intensify their spectacular dance. She walks in with a smile.

Mmm, a storm coming? - Her love asks curiously.

It seems so.

Then we are definitely sleeping with the windows open in the bedroom.

As if there is any other way to do it right.

She smiles and massages the side of her neck, breathing in deeper and exhaling with something that fills her with a sense of rest and peace. Something that only comes from another soul, inside which you found your home. Someone who finally showed you that survival mode is not the only way to live.

With her, I find rest in my bones, rest that I never found before - a pause for the chaos always present in my body and mind. In her, I find someone that I can finally surrender to.

In the best possible way.

I didn’t want to walk into her work looking like I did. I hopped her fence and fell asleep under the trampoline.

I woke up sweating from the heat of the black rubber. I found a corner of the yard and threw up. Under a palm’s short shade, I went through my bag and found my Walkman far at the bottom. I played my music until my batteries went dead. I thought of ways to get my four hundred and sixty-two dollars back from my father, though I knew it was spent already. I laid my head on a pillow of shirts and closed my eyes. Since the sudden death of my mother, he was bound for what he did. The pain of his chemical life was easier for him than dealing with his guilt for treating her like dirt, for ignoring her. Only thing was he still had a son. I wanted to hate him but I couldn’t. I thought about my mother reading her Bible from her chair under the big lamp. She was with the faith but never once pushed it on us. I thought about the old man now, a husk of waste on the floor, while I tasted my vomit and blood. My throat grew thick with bile and I leaned to my side and let it go on the grass. The Sun reached through gaps in the palms and gripped my swollen eye. It burned with tears but my eyelid wouldn’t open for anything. I covered my brow with a shirt and remembered back to my old life, to my mother reading the word, and my head burned beneath the sky that was once full with stars, which was now bright with sickness while I tried to breathe. All of nature’s passions spent, all of her God’s forgotten grace descended and rotting, the failure of His plan and the bloody tears of war-torn angels. All the mysteries of children lacerated.

Hey everyone. I’m still here for now. If you are thinking of leaving, I just wanted to extend my thanks for your contributions to this community. I hope you find another venue to post your writings. I have always supported being true to your heart and yourself. Doing what’s right for you is never a wrong decision.

“asdfjkl:” is the universal resting position on a keyboard. It’s where you go from there that makes your writing come alive. And not everyone knows what sequence of keystrokes are required to compose something worthy of reading. So wherever you end up, keep sharing your unique talent so others are moved or inspired.

I don’t feel safe anymore, it’s like some light went off, and I have no idea how to turn it on again and stop living in the dark. Something is missing, something is very wrong, and I don’t know how to figure out what it is. I’m sitting here crying, no clue other than no one can hear me screaming. My insides, twisting and burning, it hurts to breathe, no clue other than mourning. I’m mourning the girl I used to be, mourning the relationship we once had.

I keep trying to figure out why I’m like this, why I’m so fragile and angry, and it all boils down to you. And how you treated me over the years. You know what you’ve done, and still act like you’re the one abused.

Honey, you started the cycle.

You’re the reason everything turned to dust. You’re the reason I started packing away knives in case you hurt me first. Because you always did, with some side comment or sarcastic remark, and it was perfectly fine

until I started passively aggressively fighting back.

Until it stopped being so passive.

Until I started fighting dirty.

But it never made me feel better, it went against everything I was as a person. Any angry outburst felt like demons took hold of my body, once they evacuated, I’d be shaking and crying as if I had no clue what just happened. It’s exactly how it felt being me for years on end, but these episodes only happened with you. For years I thought I was crazy, but you’re the one who created the mess, the mess of me. You’re the one who has no idea what you’ve done, nor do I think you care, you just think you’re a fucking victim. No, you’re fucking not.

I’ve hated myself since before you, but you’re the reason I set myself on fire. You’re the reason I burnt to the ground and never made it out alive. You’re the reason I’m holding a memorial for the girl I used to be, the flowers in my hand, the flowers I place on my grave, are the ones you gave me, a symbol of the love I believed you had for me. But the flowers never belonged to you or me, they were demons we disguised as something beautiful.

I believed I was good in soul when I was a devil underneath the surface. I don’t understand why I’m so destructive. I’m a mean, selfish, manipulative person, yet I feel vulnerable and victimized inside. How is it I’m two different people, one person in my soul and another person to the world? It doesn’t make sense, nothing about me makes sense anymore.

I hate everything I’ve become because of you. I hate I can only scratch the surface because of you. No real emotions come through, I’ve learned to build walls from you. I’ve become an expert at hiding from the truth by hating myself for decades. And it’s not that I wanted to see the best in you, I just wanted you. I wanted this fantasy life, and I hated the world, I hated reality, everything it stood for.

I’m honestly not sure why I feel this way, the anger in my soul is boiling. … And I notice I do this, tell myself I don’t know why I feel when I’m on the verge of cracking and shattering my earth.

No idea why I keep trying to dig up this girl buried long ago, a girl I’m not even sure existed. Sometimes I wonder if I created this insanity in my mind, if maybe I’m the reason I died. That maybe I’m blaming you for everything I hate about myself. But I don’t see that, since everything is about you, and nothing is about me. - that’s impossible not to see even with my eyes closed, even pretending to be blind and burying myself in who I want you to be.

You’re not a good person.

I’m not the first person to say that, yet I keep hoping maybe I’m with you for the right reasons and not to cross boundaries with reality.

I don’t want to deal with never being meant to be loved,

I was meant to live a storyline never ending,

yet it never started with us.

You don't know me.

My nervous system doesn't light up by you the way it has for all three of my greatest loves.

I register your messages the same as I do water. Cool. Centered. Fine. Even annoyed when it takes too long.

And then I see you, and something in me stutters to a halt. Like eyes that blink too quickly in still air. Like a heart caged that finally has someone that presses against the bars without knowing, with practiced apprenhension but sloppy execution.

You sound like a club late at night, when the fog machines are cloying and the lights are too much and I'm too bleary-minded to know left from right.

You say something spectacularly starting, candid and genuine.

It should annoy me. You say I'm crazy, but you say it with a quiet knowing.

You say I am not normal, but you say it with familiarity.

You say I am strange but say it like you know, like you can see through me without ever having met me.

And I loathe the idea. I loathe you, quietly, while I profess I like you in the quiet way I do.

It is strange. It is unknown, and for some reason, my defences have raised higher than they ever have for someone since the great three.

Perhaps it is because we are the complete opposite. You are slow in action, and I am all motion. You are private while I spill my guts and hope you find it to lay prettily. You don't answer for hours and I think about it for days.

Perhaps it is because I know we will never work, and yet I pray to God that we do.

I hang up the phone and curl myself in a ball in the rumpled sheets. It’s 6:15am, and I tell myself that when the time changes to 6:25am, I’ll get out of bed. As if 10 minutes is enough to summon the energy to care about starting my day, to care about something other than you. I’ve lived my entire life in a black hole, too terrified to live any other way than with you. But this has been my daily ritual for over a year; waking up caked in sleep, slipping off the edge of dawn just to hear your voice. Staying in bed and wrapping myself up in pointless conversations that don’t make me feel any closer to you, yet somehow, I’ve become addicted to.

If I’m being honest, this ritual is more about being terrified of what might happen if my eyes don’t open with yours. What if I gave you space to think, would that make you realize you enjoy time without me? That would mean having to face the corpse of this relationship. I’m not sure it was ever the living, breathing entity I had mistaken it for, but I hold on anyway, because I have nothing left to mourn. I’ve always found the world outside of our own, make-believe one, a threat - no one else out there would even want me. Why would they?

Today my dad would’ve been 71.

I can still hear myself playfully calling him “The Gemini” and see him smirking.

I see that same, impish smirk, peering into the living room doorway, scaring the crap out of my mom, sister, and I, then grabbing his neck like something invisible was pulling him away.

Or how I bitched and complained that I couldn’t handle school and work, and asked if I should work part time and do school full time, I see him and the dog both staring at each other, then me like I’d just lost my mind.

Seven years ago something in the universe thought they knew better, thought it was his time to go. But no, we never got enough time, and I will forever be as angry as I was at 35 when he died.

Time hasn’t quelled that anger, the empty space has only grown colder.

I will never see the world in the same colors without him, and I don’t have to.

Missing you extra today, Dad.

Happy Birthday, you crazy crazy Gemini.

I keep thinking about how positive I’ve been feeling lately. How ridiculously clear my mind has been. How everything seems to be falling into place, and that there’s something potentially amazing and soul-changing that’s going to come out of this.

Standing beside her, the cold ocean warmed up to my skin, I knew, then, I was ready to confess my greatest kept secret.

With a heavy breath, I confessed, and her reaction was:

“Oh my god, really?”

I’ll never forget her hazel eyes, twinkling with curiosity, lighting up her face as she beamed…

“Are you happy?”

“Yes, I am,”

gushed out of me like a waterfall; I nearly drowned.

“Then that’s all that matters. …For a 90-year-old woman, Nana is pretty open-minded, so no worries there.”

I smiled, my heart ready to erupt with affection from the confines of my chest.

“I’m so glad you told me, that you shared this with me,”

she said, stressing the word me as if I had invited her to my garden of secrets and let her touch all my flowers, gliding her fingers along my stems as if they were the most delicate things.

I had left a piece of myself with her when I choked out the words:

“I really need to tell you something. Something about me. Something I’ve been hiding for decades.”

We splashed, we laughed, the sun beating down on us.

Coming out to my cousin was probably the most terrifying thing I’d ever done, but her reaction meant more to me than I could ever express.

I have a tendency to put people on pedestals, and it’s time I set them free.

It’s funny; ever since, I’ve been reading about how people owe us nothing, that our expectations chain not only the other person but also ourselves to ideals that don’t actually exist.

I was mad at my cousin the other day because she wasn’t acting in a way I expected her to.

The reason and situation are irrelevant for this, but I noticed I didn’t hold onto it for as long as I typically do.

I didn’t bury myself in the anger and pain; instead, I found solace in the fact that her not living up to my expectations meant nothing compared to the unconditional love she showed me when I came out.

She hasn’t made me regret it yet, and that thought made me realize we give people too much power over our minds.

Even if she didn’t live up to this overarching ideal in my head, I should never regret cracking my heart open and handing her the biggest part of me.

I’m well aware that if I judge her by past history, there’s a good chance she could turn on me, that I won’t always have this open, close, beautiful relationship with her.

But deep down, I know that I left a piece of myself with her the moment I uttered the words, “I’m engaged to a female.”

I feel like, for the first time in my life, I’ve jumped off my own ledge into turbulent waters, and if I keep swimming, I’ll find what I’m searching for. And I did.

Even then, all the love she’s given me doesn’t give me permission to put her on a pedestal.

It’s not fair to expect someone to be more than who they are.

Yet, I can say, in this moment, I’m happy…

I can say it with a conviction I never knew existed.

And that is real peace.

Oh! Hello there. You are coming home with me.

Kayla felt slight guilt as she knelt down and picked up the Philodendron piece from the floor of the home improvement store.

It's technically not stealing, right? I mean, scraps like this are just going to be swept up at closing time and tossed in the trash, right? What a waste. I'm actually rescuing it if you think about it. Yeah.

She carefully tucked the heart-shaped piece into her hoodie pocket.

On the drive home to her tiny apartment, she placed her passenger on the dashboard and excitedly brought her up to date on all things Kayla.

“…and I am soooo close to graduating. And when I do, I'm definitely gonna land a kick ass job somewhere — maybe even in one of these places,” She gestured upward toward the towering glass buildings as she drove through the medical center streets. “And you're coming with me, of course. You are going to have your very own spot on my desk!”

Kayla prattled on, feeling excited for the future and surprisingly, a lot less lonely all of a sudden. It felt good to speak her hopes and dreams out loud— even if only to a drooping leaf.

When they got home, Kayla placed her new roommate in a glass of water and set her on the kitchen window sill. She made a mental note to pick up some potting soil soon.

It will be so nice to have someone to talk to for a change. Now, she needs a name. Hmm…

Kayla smiled as it came to her.

“I hereby dub thee Philomena. For it is a strong name and a good name for a friend.”

Borger, Texas.

I remember this place

smelling stronger

when I was a boy,

sentenced to live in the

Texas Panhandle

for a year.

Though now when I drive

through this place, I feel a strange

peace, and an odd longing to have a safe

home and my own family,

though

that ship

has decades ago sailed,

sank,

and rotted

on the ocean floor.

The family went to

Borger once

though I don't know why,

maybe to see my father's

new place of

work,

the Phillips 66 plant,

where he was a pipe

fitter

or a grunt

or whatever else he

and my second oldest brother did there.

Who got who the job escapes me.

My niece was quick to remind me

they were most

likely contracted through whoever hired

them to work for the plant,

and not

actual employees,

her disgust for her

father,

and mine, for that matter,

resonated across the living room.

It was

thick,

and it floated without the chance

of going any higher

or any lower.

For our

own reasons,

the hate cloud was on

permanent reserve.

My niece, now full with a great husband,

grown children, and a new little boy in

the house is a nurse who works from home:

One patient,

a little boy of five

who has

Fox G1 Syndrome,

a rare genetic disorder

a version of it that has completely

erased a chromosome within the life

chain.

She had mentioned the word hospice

a few times last night, but I was too

tired from the drive to register the

weight.

Asked about the syndrome, she

explained it to me.

"Like a missing linkage in a transmission," I said.

"Yep," she said.

"What's his timeline?" I looked at him on the couch.

When I had walked out from

the room with the dogs, first light, he

had looked up at me and smiled what

can only think of as a beautiful, loving,

gapped-teeth smile,

limbs flailing,

completely adorable

completely oblivious

to anything

that fucked

with anyone

completely rare,

and I had sat down next

to him and he had eyed the color of my

tattoo, whatever shape it made through

near blindness, reached over and

palmed it

and I gave a spot on his ribs

a light squeeze just below

the tube and

machine

that was used to keep his lungs

stray from pneumonia

since he can't walk.

She looked down at him and smiled as if

what she was saying about him was alright,

on the off-chance he might sense

the meaning in the words

or on

the full chance

that my heart was breaking for

the boy.

"Well, he's in Hospice, so it could

literally be any day now, any

moment."

"Fuck. That is just fucking awful."

"It is. I've had him many days a

week for four years."

My border collie

walked over and licked his face and I

called her off even though it appeared

to us that he liked it.

I reached down

and scrubbed her head and watched the

boy as I held my coffee.

Hard not to love

those who have no evil

those who shine

through the darkness of everyday

survival, everyday mistrust,

worry, fear,

and even the thoughts that keep us

pinned to the room at 2 in the morning.

The love is almost always instant.

In the actual town of Panhandle,

I drove around and remembered, like a

home movie, my time going to school there.

I was in the fourth grade or fifth grade

one of those

but aside from that fog

my memory of the place was still sharp as

new glass:

The full names of the children

in my school, the park, the old house,

and

all of it hadn't changed

it was a time

capsule

I'd been through once before in

my late 20s and back then I thought

living here would be Hell

but now at 54

it looks like heaven to me,

like a place

where I would sleep right

I could wake

up and write

I could record in my booth

I could get away from all the

bullshit for good

from all my bullshit.

I really can't describe it, yet

I can

though it's filtered

the reasons

why I ran to the the road as a young man

a nomad

a writer

and the reasons it has

changed to fatigue and something like

tracing a picture from memory you once

held so lovingly sacred

but lost to the

attrition of years between.

But there's something else

something waiting

something beyond the

shore and over the curve

of the sun-torn highway

something in each place

I want to uncover

with words and images

for no other reason

than I feel I must.

The winter wind of North Texas is

coming in strong with the onset

of December,

but I won't feel it

good or bad,

I will be

west of this

place.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HS5qSERw1i0