Author: Anonymous

My husband and I arrive at the venue about 20 minutes ahead of the ceremony start. We’re greeted by a barrage of hail hammering at the car and preventing us from running inside. It takes a few minutes but when it does clear up the most vibrant rainbow appears hanging over us and the clouds have dissipated to reveal the beautiful blues.
When we enter the venue, my husband gravitated to another co worker he spots and soon that group grows quite large as all of the grooms work buddies find each other. I’ve partied with most of them a handful of times and catch up with the other wives before the ceremony.

The wedding is held outside, overlooking a pristine view of our city and the mountains. Black and white cloth roses line the walkway. It is a very elegant display. Travis and his bride shortly follow with their walk down the aisle. To our surprise much of the talking points of the ceremony are about their recovery as addicts and how the couple found each other in that space and despite warnings about the hazards of addicts in recovery forming those kinds of relationships, they still chose to let love bloom.
We’re then released back inside for delicious snackies while the professional photos are done.
As we’re congregated with the rest of the work friends by the front entrance outside there’s a pair of butterflies getting friendly hopping from person to person, in particular they seem fond of the guy wearing a cowboy hat.
We stick around until after cake at around 9 because the big man has to work it the morning and will get lucky if he can squeeze five hours of sleep in before shift. We do the ballroom goodbye shuffle,making sure we give our friends love and thanks before making the trek home.

Can I admit something pessimistic
And quite frankly fatalistic?
No one comes close to stealing my heart away.
The churchgoers keep preaching about the ultimate idyllic love.
The romantics keep knocking on the doors of the suffering to say it only hurts because there is a deep joy hidden in the muscles of the heart.
This poem isn’t about you.
It’s about how Love stowed away their beautiful sweetness in other rooms
And all I had was imagination to feel its pulse in my life.
Now the secrecy is
I have grown so long without it
In bedrooms with half assed lovers
And false fair boyfriends.
I seemingly don’t need it’s divine presence.
Instead the fire of my heart churns
On the platonic
On the way you smiled
On the way she heard
And the way they danced.
Its hard to open up to anyone else
Because even an attempt to throw caution to the wind
Never brings anyone close.
So when I see friends after years of pilgrimage elsewhere
I don’t think I will be saddened by no arm to share life with.
I have always thought I was better off
And still instinctively in a small gaping crevice of my perilous thoughts
I wish someone would prove me wrong.

Right now everything seems to be really confusing. I don’t know if there’s a change in your feelings about me or just your surroundings. We are never meant to be but I really want us to happen. I’ve never like anyone like this as if someone’s ripping my heart out of my chest. Every love songs I hear, my mind thinks of your face, and I think I’m going crazy.

We will never happen but if you can, please make your departure out of my life painless. Make our last moments filled with happiness for tomorrow is not promised. If you are not sure about me, just know that I am always sure of you. I’ll always be proud of you, future engineer.

Sometimes when I say
“If this all there is, it would be enough”
It doesn’t carry the depth it should.
What I am desperately thinking is of a you, him or she from another time.
Yesterday I stumbled into a bar
Only to see a new version of someone I loved standing in the doorsill
Of my New World.
I forgot how much sepia can fill in a room
And how much I loved the color
And frankly I knew then
That I was blessed to encounter him again
And the statement above, suddenly rang crystal clear.

What do I do my faraway star?
Do I build shrines to a love that kindled years ago
But never went ablaze?
Do I hold onto the trinkets or do I let the ink run dry on a refillable page?
Where do the fever dreams flutter to?
Do they go to someplace else or do I squeeze them until the fever breaks?
Does the garden become weeds?
Does my voice become hoarse and then silent?
Oh blemish speck, the bright light cradling the universe.
What do you do with this saturated inability to let go?
Do I endlessly float through the drudgery and awe of the cosmos?
Some inner voice says
“Let go into the wonderful unknown”
Well Honey, I just don’t know.

A movie date months in the making with my girl Jaqs up at the Alamo Drafthouse in Sloans Lake. I’m happy to see her looking good and reporting on her successes and hobbies.

Strange, I think I turn my phone off but as the picture begins my phone starts ringing , a number labeled Salt Lake CY UT. A phone also rings on the screen as a man yells for his brother to pick up the phone at a party as we’re introduced to the horror ahead of us.
We enjoy it, and emerge from the theater to rain and thunder with the occasional flash of lightning. I take a moment to tell her about the previous day at the fair, as visually it bared some interesting similarities with the spirits manifesting in the physical body in the movie, although in my instance the persons experience on the other side of the veil after the eyes rolling back was an experience of peace.
We part ways bidding each other safe travels in the rain and making loose plans for future movie dates not so far between.
The rain and lightning makes the drive home moody, and in perfect alignment with the film we just enjoyed. I’m into it.

At the Colorado Renaissance Faire and we’ve met up with my husband’s friend Chez and my girl Jen with her fiance. I had warned my friends in advance that my husband had gobbled down a few psilocybin after entry for this particular adults only experience, he however failed to let his buddy know what had happened so what happened next was maybe more frightening than it needed to be. The husband was fine for a round of throwing axes, shortly after a restroom pit stop is when it hit hard.

After going through the ships hulk shop with my friends, I caught up to my husband and his bud at the pirates pub stage. He’d said he wasn’t feeling so great and laid his head on the table, very suddenly he flies backward, landing with a thud on the ground. Some kindly fair folk over at the bar help with with the body until he comes too. His eyes are rolled back in his head and a deep snoring sound emerges from his throat . Someone calls for the medic team and the maiden singing onstage champion onward.

How much more do you need?

What do you need from me?

Will we ever get to the other side before there’s nothing left?

MAY

Christmas lights dwindle from soft pupils
In a May storm full sky.
Humming birds and glittery trees
Are frozen by songs in refrain.
Days where everything feels beautiful
Are stockpiled for rainy afternoons, not yet lived through but highly anticipated.
Dreams dart and dissipate but somehow feelings linger.

JUNE

Despite a handshake of Cruel Life
a melancholy gal tap dances her vivacious tune.
Although wishes never came true
And prayers are forever not answered by God or Man,
penny throwers feels slightest wind of change and
Somehow the faintest touch of hope bubbles to surface, once thought as unobtainable dreams.

JULY

Life’s risky ballroom floor has changes of partners.
Smiles escape eternity with flickers of an upturned brow somehow sagging by evening.
Everything is off kilter, cold and brazen
But secretly Mad and Lost
Think of spring and of
A single flower budding through harsh, frigid snow of disheveled minds.
Somehow, despite the tempo being altered the feeling of hope resurfaces.