An Ode to French Fries

O! The way you glisten
in the glint of light
with oil and salt.

It does make my mouth water,
my heart beat faster,
my stomach churn in wanting.
For your beauty does know no match,
the way you compliment my palate is divine.

O! Fried potatoes,
your salty delicate flavour undoes me
in a way that no other can,
I crave you more deeply
than any other.
For without you I am not complete,
you are my other half.

Confusion

Empty. Open. Alone.

These are the thoughts that enter DJ's mind when she thinks of his visit. She is left with more questions than she'd had beforehand. Things feel more complicated now, but as to why, she is uncertain. DJ lifts her cup of tea and burns her top lip. She glares at the cloudy liquid in the cup and blows warm air across its surface. She puts the cup down and stands. She walks into her bathroom, looks at the sink, the floor, the toilet. She leaves. She can still smell him on her skin. Strong and bold, the scent of his work lingers though she's since changed her clothes. DJ longs to hold him, to feel completed by his arms, but she isn't sure that hope is real; doesn't know that it could happen. She walks into the kitchen, sees what is left of their dinner still on the counter, turns and walks back to her original seat at the table. Taking her phone into her hands, DJ calls him. Screaming, she tells him to make up his mind. She hangs up. Seconds later, she dials again. Voicemail. "I'm sorry. I'm crazy. I'm sorry." She hangs up. Shaking, DJ stands again, picks up her book from the table by the door, moves into the bedroom. In bed, DJ tries to read but finds she cannot. She begins to cry. She doesn't understand why yet, but she will.

Toolbox

I want so badly
to take a tool from the box,
press it against my skin,
and release the tension
of a thousand
internal wounds
that bleed into my soul,
press darkness against my heart,
and fill my lungs with the
mucus that is
anxiety.
unwanted.
lonely.
self-hatred.
and a host of other emotion-feelings
that engulf my being

Incomplete vows

I want to share the best parts of my life with you.
Have every 'best memory' shared --
Ours.
I want my life to mingle with yours. No tearing them apart.
Our one life, complete and whole --
An entity in itself.
Too close for comfort. Or is it?
My memories long for you; incomplete without you.

-- A lapse --

I want to share my life with you, give you everything I've got.
The best and worst of me's for you,
With you,
In you.
And me as well.

I want each fond memory to start with You and each bad one to end with Your presence.
Make memories with me.
Grow and cherish and love with me.
Form new life with me.
Become me;
and let me become you.
A life not shared is a life insignificant;
Share yours with me and mine with you.

Pick up my pieces when I fall apart and I promise to pick up yours.
I'll put them together --
better than before, and seal them with all the love of my heart.

I want each fond memory to start with You and each bad one to end with Your presence.
Make memories with me.
Grow and cherish and love with me.
Form new life with me.
Become me;
and let me become you.
A life not shared is a life insignificant;
Share yours with me and mine with you.
Love me,
and be loved.
Promise me my darling

Alone versus Lonely

"I want to be alone; I do not want to be lonely," she said as she sat in the therapist's chair.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked.

"I mean that I want to feel loved, feel a part of something without leaving the comfort of my living room."

"Well, you can't do that. It's impossible!"

He didn't understand, he never understood what she was getting at. You can be alone and not lonely, she thought but she did not object, just made a murmur of agreement. Let him think he knows, he isn't worth my time. 

Mariella was 39 going on forty (for the past five years). She was strong and independent, but also utterly alone in the world. After her divorce from Joe, her husband of twenty-odd years, Michael (her son) had disowned her and she had lost the one thing that kept her life in focus. That was when she'd started seeing a therapist -- or rather, that's what led to her seeing one. First she tried taking dance lessons. Something to get her out of the house, moving and interacting with new people. The salsa lessons she'd always wanted to take didn't bring her the joy she dreamed of... even the passionate sex with her dance partner Simon hadn't help. At that point Mariella had turned to alcohol, and when that failed to help her as well, she'd started sneaking antidepressants from the pharmacy where she worked part-time. But even the medication designed to make people happy wasn't doing anything for her, and as a last resort Mariella had drunkenly dialed her local crisis line. The representative she'd spoken to was very nice, albeit a tad too cheery for someone working in such a position. Her name had been Ruth... or was it Rita? Something with an 'R' anyway. R had connected Mariella with Dr. Geordon and she'd been seeing him about once a week ever since. She'd hoped that paying someone to make her happy would work after she had tried everything she could think of on her own, but it had been almost five months and no progress had been made.

"Mariella," Dr. Geordon said. "Mariella."

Mariella snapped out of her daze and focused on the doctor. "Hm?"

"Mariella, you know that therapy isn't going to work if you aren't one hundred percent invested in your recovery. I know it's hard, and depression has a way of taking control, but you really have to fight it, you can't just--"

At that point Mariella stopped listening again. Who was this man to tell her what she could and couldn't do? It was too much for her. It had been too much for her since Joe had handed her the papers. She had thought that they could work it out -- one little extra-marital affair on Joe's part shouldn't tear apart a strong marriage -- but that wasn't how Joe had seen it. Stepping out on her had been his way of escaping Mariella's control, and he had liked it. One taste of that freedom had reminded him of what was missing in his marriage, and it was his ability to think, to control his own destiny. So when Mariella found out about the affair and immediately set about trying to fix their marriage, Joe had gotten in touch with an old lawyer friend of his from school and started the process of separation and then divorce from Mariella. Mariella, of course, was devastated and she continued to be hurt over it even though it had now almost been a year.

"Mariella."

"I think we're done for today, Dr. Geordon."

"But Mariella, the session has just started."

"I'll pay for the whole hour. I'll just give the cheque to Sammy at the desk," she said, standing up.

"Would you like to set up our next session now?"

"That won't be necessary. I'll be in touch with Sammy if I wish to book again."

The tone was cold and distant, and Dr. Geordon was visibly unhappy with this result. "I'm sorry if I've upset you, Mariella, but you must understand--"

"It's not that doctor, I just don't want to do this today." Mariella turned and walked out into the waiting area of Dr. Geordon's office. It was overwhelmingly tidy, decorated in shades of navy blue and grey. Mariella smiled brightly at Samantha sitting at the desk and handed her the cheque that she'd written that morning before leaving the house. "Thanks Sammy," she chirped, and was out the door in seconds.

Two days later, Mariella was dead.

A Kiss Remembered

Kissing you always felt so right, your lips soft against mine, firm and hesitant. I've often called you the best kisser I've ever kissed... but what if my memories are wrong, and you aren't that good, it's just my imagination playing tricks like it always does? I could kiss you and find out, but if I'm wrong I don't want to know it.

Bright Light

Tonight I saw the sun.

I watched her open her eyes,

and shine with the brightness of a million stars.

She had gotten dimmer, moon-like, afraid.

Tonight I saw the sun.

I watched her awaken, shake off the darkness,

and rejoice.