chapters.

Every life is broken up by defining chapters or certain lengths of time that imprint
experience on our foreheads.
This is where I am, at the end of a chapter. Most would say that breaking up a
life into chapters is purposeless because then the life, in its
entirety, means nothing. That thinking only of one scene without
consideration of the rest leads to degradation of plot. I, however, beg to differ. My life has moved too fast to be taken in all at once.I break it up to find meaning.
Now, here I stand, in transition. New sights, sounds, voices, my senses elated. I
can truly say that this chapter held its high moments, more than any of the previous. But balance in this world must be maintained, and so I must also say that this chapter held the lowest moments as well.
Regret exists, I cannot deny. Yet in my heart I know that each memory I have will bring me confidence in some form. Experience has to come from somewhere.
As I write this, I cannot even think clearly. Recalling each time I've felt joy, true passion, true fear, true anger, is like throwing stones into a small pond and counting the ripples.
In the end, they blur together. But recalling the feeling is much easier. Certain moments where those feelings peak. The blissful peace I felt driving with a friend down the highway at sunset. The windows rolled down. Fresh air never felt so smooth and free. Feelings and sensations. Those matter, those moments are what really count in the end.
I have ended this chapter, yes, I have ended it. It is time to move on to the
next page. I do not know what will be written in times to come, but by
ending this chapter I am sure to find out.

She loved to stand alone,

She loved her independence,

As she dialed a number on her cell phone,

A number that reached long distance.

She was getting on a train today,

A train headed to nowhere,

Normally she fed off these rebellious trips,

But instead this time,

She quietly sat there.

Staring at the floor,

She thought of how many had crossed it,

In and out of the old-fashioned doors,

Mumbling among the public and racket.

The day was coming to a close,

Her's was the very last stop,

She was seeming like a ghost,

Invisible from bottom to top.

Her suitcase packed beside her,

Her eyes looked tired and weary,

For a girl so young and sure,

Her eyelashes flickered and became teary.

Noone sat beside her,

She was usually surrounded,

The life of the party,

Suddenly, Isolated.

Her laughter seemed to fade,

She hadn't spoken since morning end,

Hours, minutes, even seconds,

Silence is a fickle friend

A one-way ticket,

Clutching onto it tight,

hands folded in her lap,

a tear in her bright, but saddened eyes.

She had left to find herself,

See if she could be someone else,

spend a day observing others as they go and stay,

be quiet instead of getting in the way.

Running from herself,

Tired of who she was,

Missing who she could have been,

Sick, tired, had enough.

tired of being tough,

Her eyes were tearing up still,

Here and now she was fragile,

Being alone was no longer a thrill.

She realized there was eventually an end,

She knew there was nowhere to run,

She just wanted to see something different in herself,

Alone on a Train in the setting sun.

I wonder

Sometimes I look to the North, in your general direction, and I wonder if it's lonely on that side of the universe.

We used to think distance didn't matter - physical distance, anyways. we claimed we could travel far enough and fast enough, more important than any pretty thing like time. I used to think I was smart, answering questions with ten-letter words that had small meanings. I talked big, but had a small heart; After all, you were the only thing inside it. It's funny, because I used to be so sure. Now, I'm just another question mark at the end of a rising infection, another thing that wasn't meant to be. (and yes, I happened anyways.)

You used to say you never made mistakes, and I used to contradict you. Then, one day you turned around and admitted it. "Fine," you said. "I'm not perfect. I make mistakes, too. but I hardly ever do." Then you couldn't look me in the eye anymore and found company in the comforting, stable concrete. "Maybe you were my only mistake," you concluded.

On nights like these, I wish I could climb up on the roof - where we used to spend our loneliest nights - and wonder.

I wonder if you lie awake at night like me. I wonder if the ticking clock haunts you like it used to before I came along. I wonder if you're all digital now, if you've thrown out your old grandfather clock. I wonder if you look at clocks and feel time slipping through your fingers like love, lost. It's only natural.

I can imagine you now, tangled up in sheets like reverse metamorphosis; You're the caterpillar, darling, once beautiful, now lovely. I can imagine you looking to the South, in my general direction, and wondering if it's lonely on this side of the universe.

Then again, I always did have an active imagination. You told me that was a curse. I've yet to believe you.

It's more than likely you are fine, curled up by the window with a book about sex, your dog curled up at your feet. It's more than likely that you are looking forwards to the weekend, looking forward to getting out and moving away. You do not care for clocks, or time - nothing is more petty, and you are not so shallow.

I can imagine you getting ready to go out, games put away and parents asleep. You don't have a care in the world anymore, and you couldn't care less about this side of the world. Who could blame you? It feels so far, you think, and if I'm out of sight, I'm out of mind. It's simple as that. you are not so complex, anymore. You're weak and I've got you figured out.

It is more than likely that you are fine, and are not looking my way, wondering if it's lonely on this side of the word. Still, I wonder.

Untitled.

The words you say to me are clear,

as if made from the paper

they use to wrap up peppermints;

the kind that melt away in ones

mouth.

You dispense them ever so slowly

to ensure they are received

with the clarity they are delivered;

punctuations are dismissed,

not required.

I allow the tones to rest on my tongue,

placing in order of preference

for use as needed for the benefit

of love’s survival.

I marvel at the ability you possess

in creating patterns for this mind

that keeps me crawling towards your mouth,

for more,

lying face up to receive the bounty.

As I sit here eying you from that side I favor,

my head tilts at just the right angle;

the better to collect verbal offerings from

a lifeline that grows from your mouth

to mine.

Lines.

There's a fine line that's built over time.

This line is yours, and this line is mine.

This line was built with love, with values and with trust.

This line was built by us over time.

I want to continue to build this line, oh if you'd only let me.

For a line so fine hasn't yet been broken, even over obstacles and time;

because the values you built your half with are not the same as mine.

Yet this line hasn't yet broken over time.

For I've strung my heart down this line, and even if it lacks yours,

it still has mine, and so far it seems to be doing fine, keeping this line.

Lost time.

There were lapses in times " days at lengths " which neither of us can recall. Chunks of minutes and hours that slunk away quietly, only to blend into some garbled time line of other amnesiac memories.

Days later, we would wake up from reveries. Wars had begun - somewhere in distant, exotic lands, skirmishes had snowballed into battles- cities were bombed, histories razed, men and women alike scattered carelessly like marbles, carrion for undiscerning scavengers. But us, well we cannot remember.

We waited for messy packages of future moments, wrapped callously in torn pages from our datebooks - we waited and waited. But they are lost in transition, in a careless oversight of some Cosmic Post Office. I wonder who received them. Will they revel in our misplaced moments, as we might have?

Only a handful of countries away, the grounds quivered with grief and thousands were swallowed into its bowels. The earth rumbled and tumbled with discomfort, mountains spat fires and molten curses, rivers bled with rage - but us, well we cannot remember. We lay in a temporary repose, in the eye of the storm.

I have wondered if Time is no more than a wandering troubadour across countless universes that exist concomitantly. Does It make a brief, insouciant sojourn in ours? And when it leaves, as violently as It comes, do we sink into an unremitting timelessness? And what are these inexplicable days then, but glimpses of life at the edge of lifelessness?

We cannot remember, we cannot.

It became a lilting game of finding clues, of piecing together a narrative of those unaccountable days. With a jarful of disjointed hints, we invented kaleidoscopic memoirs. They dissolved just as easily as they had evolved. Shaken by faith, they rearranged themselves to form yet another colorfully detailed carapace.

We would lie besides each other, in cocoons of familiarity, wrapped only in ourselves and within ourselves, and we would conjecture. We spun wild fairy tales of ghosts and aliens, of jealous time-robbers, until we would retire in peals of laughter at our own absurdity.

We blamed clocks, and their flimsy hands too unreliable to keep watch. Time cannot fail, but archaic man-made contraptions could, we deduced. We conscientiously switched to digital clocks soon after, finding solace in their neon-green readings.

Late into nights, we would speak of myths and legends of time-travelers, of God the Ultimate Watchmaker, of heroes and epic journeys. We would pose theories until we drifted off holding hands.

Oh, we had a lot of explanations, you and I, but never certainty. We were creators of fiction, not satisfaction. Whatever our beliefs, we conceded that we would never solve The Mystery of the Missing Days.

Years have raced passed us now; we have become unconcerned, as our curiosity dissipates. We have learned to live comfortably with our historic pasts. We no longer question it, only accepted it as unquestionable. Our paths have diverged, and we have rebuilt our lives in different corners of the world, our worlds. We have submitted our souls to token jobs, jaded romances, and white picket fences. All this, when we once floated upon wispy pallets in the surreal forests of our beings.

But we live in reality now and what a shit hole it really is.

I have not seen you in seventeen years. Each year is etched indelibly in my being as if to compensate for those days that left no trails. I wonder who you are now. Wherever you are, I wish to tell you " I have solved The Mystery of the Missing Days. It took me seventeen years, but I have the answer now.

You see, I sat down, and I thought and I thought. In my mind, I ran every permutation and combination of what could have happened. In my mind, I processed a million time lines, crisscrossing each other at every interval and every segment. I drew flowcharts, and concocted algorithms, drafted maps, and speculated explanations at cosmic and microcosmic levels. And when I had exhausted every iota of reason, every minutiae of logic, I understood.

The last thing I remember before we dissolved into our own personal timelessness, is that we had just fallen in love.