It's all in the game.

Nothing worked out like it was supposed to (But does it ever?). My laptop caught a debilitating virus, then the deadly tornadoes tore my hometown apart, and with days of clean-up to do NaPoWriMo's book didn't get finished on time. BUT, it will and I did write everyday, as planned. After the Storm will be finished (hopefully) soon. Until then, here is some stuff I've been working on. I plan on blogging about the disaster as soon as I get time to breathe. Until then:

Him.

Making me feel

less than adequate.

Making me feel

defective.

Fingertips tracing out

the cherry blossoms

on my arm that he placed

so delicately with the needle.

I told him that

I hated my arms.

Reddish, disgusting.

With a smile, he said we could fix it.

Like there was something wrong.

Something he saw flawed.

A defect.

Alternations needed.

Something that was less than.

Something that disgusted him.

In agreement that each imperfection

was a fault that needed mending.

Nodding my head to agree.

Knowing that the defect was there.

Knowing that there was truth in that.

Trusting him to paint something better.

Some days.

Some days I forget.

I forget that you are gone.

I forget that you are dead.

I dial ten numbers into the phone.

It rings and someone else picks up.

Redistributed number; apology; tears.

What can I expect after five years?

Magic.

I expect magic.

Wizardry to bring you back.

A spell cast and a chant.

Nothing, reveals darkness.

Reminding me.

Telling me truth,

instead of the lies that I seek.

Like knives cutting into veins.

Clean and precise.

Never too  deep, but never too shallow.

Just enough to feel something.

Paging through memories.

Memories of Easter 1994.

All of us out in the circle.

Sun shining; we look happy.

Memories of the museum trip.

The first one,

for which I claimed everything.

Love for the past; love for Egypt.

You showed me how to love.

You believed in me.

You are gone.

Where am I supposed to go?

How do I fit the pieces together?

Some fragments of the pottery

are ancient, missing,

and irreplaceable.

Because of you I wander.

Because of you I forget.

Because of you I am despondent.

Because of you I love.

Because,

because,

because,

because.

I have a reason to believe.

A reason to live.

A reason to know that there

is a brighter side to sorrow.

Knowing that there is tomorrow,

rising along with the brackish sky.

Diminishing the darkness

and being consumed by light.

Your eyes in photographs,

aged and tattered from years,

still as bright through

the black and the white.

Faded hand written postcards

with stamps from everywhere.

Penned with fragments

of phalanges lying beneath.

I know that you are gone.

I know that I need happiness.

But I can’t ever recall wanting it

as much as I need it.

I have a reason to believe that it

has been lost, but can be found.

I know this with upmost truth that

where you are now, you are smiling.

And happiness is around,

somewhere in between worry

and before hate;

and I know that.

It’s there, because

you lived.

It’s there, because

I’m still here.