I can’t write her story; I can’t create what never existed.  That’s her job. She does it darn well too. In the comforts of her little bedroom with chocolate walls and a dozen pets, she creates what never was conceived. Her mind is a dangerous place, a slaughterhouse and a workshop at once, where she births creatures too beautiful to be true. Then, like a lioness protective of her cubs, she guards them. That kind of devotion is enough to scare you away and never look back. So you run as fast as you can into the frost outside. And it’s it hits you as you finally stop. She kept you warm too…


Bedroom diaries

I lay there on his crumpled sheets
Waiting for him to start
Unwrapping me, bit by bit
 And dip into my naked
 Soul, like fishes plunge
 In silent waters
 When short of breath

Seeker’s Anxiety

Long have I longed

For a love that breathes,

Consumes and delivers

Restrains and frees

One that glows like

Burning embers on

A dark, gusty night

Comforting the chill

Buried deep in my bones,

Calming the many seas

That asunder my soul,

A love that lasts

For evermore . . .