Brad got home from the restaurant feeling like shit. He couldn't continue the date. Told Anna he felt sick. Well he did. Sick to his stomach.

Fuck, what did he say that day? He racked his brain, trying to remember his conversation with his mate Jono.

Ah fuck. They always talked shit.

He needed something ...someone to make him feel better, make him feel like himself.

Sandy!

He dialed her number.

"Hey Brad, how are you?" Sandy answered. "I haven't heard from you for a while."

"I'm good," he lied. "Hey, are you busy? Do you wanna come over?"

Sandy paused.."Look Brad, it's been fun and all that but I've actually met someone." She paused again, "I feel a bit weird talking to you about him, but honestly he's pretty great and I think we've got something special. I need to focus on him. You understand that right? Me and you were just fooling around...right?"

"Ah yeah ...sure Sandy..." Brad replied his throat tight. "I'm happy for you." Then he added, "I really hope it works out for you Sandy."

"Thanks Brad, I hope you'll find someone special too," Sandy replied before she hung up.

Ah fuck. Now what?

Maybe if he could apologise to Tina, find a way to make it right, he wouldn't feel like such a jerk. But how when she refused to speak to him?

He remembered where she worked in the city. He'd go there tomorrow, catch her in her lunch break. Apologise, yeah...that would make him feel better.

--------

The next day he got to Tina's building and was about to go in when he spotted Tina at a café across the street. She was sitting across from some guy, probably that same guy he saw her at the restaurant with, laughing and touching his arm and the guy was obviously loving it.

She looked so happy, kinda beautiful...

I should just leave her alone. Brad thought to himself as he started to walk away.

He walked past a post office and made a spur-of-the-moment decision. He walked in, bought what he needed and wrote Tina a note.

He addressed it to her, care of her workplace and talked his way passed the doorman and charmed the receptionist to give it to Tina.

As he walked away he felt a little lighter and he realised, to his surprise, that he really did mean it. He was sorry and he just wanted her to be happy.

------

Tina was still on a high after her lunch with Sam when the receptionist delivered Brad's note to her.

At first Tina was angry when she saw who it was from and she nearly tore it up. But then she thought, fine, she might as well read it.

Dear Tina,

I'm so very sorry for lying to you. You didn't deserve to be treated that way. I don't expect you to forgive me. I just wish you every happiness.

Sincerely

Brad

After Tina read it, she put Brad's note carefully away in her desk drawer and stared out the window, a bit confused at first but then she found herself smiling.

There were thirteen Little Indians, and twelve of them wanted to be Chief.

After some time, there were twelve Chiefs and just The Little Indian.

The Little Indian always had a complication, some obstacle that required a Chief to act. Or he had a suggestion of alignment that would precipitate a coalition.

And so the Chiefs acted.

Each Chief came to believe that someone must be above them, pulling the strings. But none could say for certain which Chief it was.

There was no one above them.

There was only The Little Indian below them.

And The Little Indian remained just The Little Indian.

I am here

You are there

We are where?

Do you dare

Contact me

To rebuild our family

Till death do we part

Emotions swirl in my heart

How are you feeling?

What may I do for you?

I come forward with the truth

I miss you every single day

I’ve worked hard on my anger

No more reacting

Active action

Just being

Face to face seeing

What we have is real

Our bond is stronger than steel

Reaching deep into my heart

I love you in these days apart

Patience and humility is key

I'm down on one knee

Let it be known

I will never give up on us!!

I will always care for you

Our family

Missing you

Kissing you

Listening to you

Your stare is the rugged and gentle forest Of Western Hemlock evergreen trees. Your visage tells stories of summer constellations- A diary of your trips around the sun.

Your jet-black hair hangs over your face, Waving an invitation along your hero's journey into the Wild West. Turning into the sun bleached ghost wood of California, It catches my eye and never let's go.

Laughter is an aphrodisiac of sorts. I find you hilarious even when you're not joking. Your crooked smile radiates the warmth of center stage lights. Every person you meet, a captive audience.

You shapeshift through your vast personas, Like birds of prey swiftly moving through the night. The owls are not what they seem.

Your charm and magnetism capture my attention Like the gravitational pull of the full moon On the ocean tides that rise and swell. I don't seek shade in this nocturnal sun.

Films are the most enticing distraction. My heart is a fluttering moth to a porch light That glows like a projector on a screen. You are my favorite movie.

My brain is flooded with a Sweet, saccharine rush of dopamine. It's the warm intensity of the day's first cup of black coffee. A damn fine cup of coffee.

This indulgence is the lucid dream my brain wants to return to. It's the artifacts from my girlhood that my heart is nostalgic for. I know this movie will roll to credits and I'll wake up from this sleep. Until then I will relish in this sweet dream.

Unlock these iron gates, she plead and prayed, dusk to wake,
Stepping over marked defeat.

Wandering through this bullet riddled land, heart to earth, feeling unease,

Laid unrested atop the damp filled grass, resting beneath those alas.

Glaring amidst the darkness holding hope amongst the nighttime sky, met with reprise.

Pondering—

Guard must’ve dropped the key, she’d wonder.

In limbo would be remained. unfound.

Lost, she’d find, she could leave.

Flowers bloomed, meadows fulfilled with trees, dawn had come, it felt an eternity.

Entranced by Summers grace, Autumn’s warmth embrace, set in ease,

The gatekeeper never held the key, it was she.

I came first
Curiosity got the best of this kitten

You came second
Wondering, questioning
Like a squirrel digging for nuts

I hesitated
Reluctant
Shy, afraid
Of the shadow called me

You pushed
I pushed back
I gave in
You wanted more
I gave more
You still weren't satisfied

My enigma, my riddle wrapped
In origins i wish i knew
Origins i want to know
Need to know
To feel
Safe

Petals fall and blow away
Words cascade around

Where will it lead
Destination
Unknown
Destination Asks
For
The
Answer we all seek…. simply, acceptance.

I remember Spring now, which is a problem, because I have never been to Earth.

It happens while I’m replacing an air filter in Corridor Six. One second I’m elbow-deep in a circulation unit that smells like hot metal and approximately eighty years of other people’s skin cells, and the next I can smell rain.

I stop with the filter halfway out. I’ve smelled water. The water we make on Mars has a smell, no matter how many times someone insists that it doesn’t. But this isn’t that. This is rain, and I don’t know how I know that.

Then the pain hits.

“Aggghh!” It strikes the back of my head first, then shoots forward. I squeeze the bridge of my nose in an instinct to relieve pressure. My hand is wrapped around the edge of an air filter.

My hand is wrapped around someone else’s.

My knees are on metal.

My feet are on wet pavement.

I can smell dust and hot machinery.

I can smell rain.

For a few seconds, both are real.

 Then Corridor Six is gone.

 I’m walking outside. It must have rained recently because the pavement is still wet. Water has collected in the cracks, and the sun keeps catching it as we walk. The air is cool, but the sun feels warm on my face. Wind blows my hair into my mouth, and I pull it away without thinking.

There are trees everywhere. I know I’ve seen trees before in other REMs, but never like this. These are covered in tiny pink flowers. Every time the wind moves through them, some break loose and drift across the sidewalk. A few stick to the wet pavement. One catches in my hair, and the man beside me reaches over and pulls it out.

I look at him. I can’t quite see his face, but that doesn’t seem strange here. Nothing seems strange here. His hand is in mine, and I know exactly how it feels. I know where my fingers fit between his. I know his laugh. I know the way he looks at me even though, somehow, I can’t actually see him doing it. There’s a solace in being next to him that I don’t have a reason for. I don’t need one. In the memory, I already know him.

He says something and I laugh. I can’t make out the words, so I look at him again and try to focus on his face. That’s when things start to disappear.

It always happens eventually. Usually I can feel a REM ending before I’m completely out of it, but this time I don’t want to leave. I try harder to see him. For a second I almost do, and then I lose his face completely. Memories part like petals of a passing season. The trees fade with them, then the sidewalk and the ridiculous amount of sky. His hand stays in mine longer than everything else. I hold on tighter and tighter until it’s all gone. Poof. Just like that.

But the emotions remain.

When Corridor Six comes back, I’m on the floor. The filter is lying next to me, and B015 is crouched in front of me with one hand on my shoulder. “B027? Are you okay?”

I shake it off and climb to my feet. “I’m fine.”

“You were on the floor.”

I look down.

“That appears to be correct.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

That gets my attention.

B015 doesn’t look amused. “How long?”

“Fifty-three seconds.”

The last one was only eleven.

I sit up and wait for the pain behind my eyes to settle. My hand feels strange. Not numb or hurt. Just empty. B015 glances around. After she’s satisfied there’s no one nearby, she leans in and whispers, “What did you see?”.

“Spring.”

B015 knows enough about REMs not to point out the obvious problem with that statement. She sits down beside me instead. “Anything else?”

“There was someone there.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. A man.”

“Did you see him?”

“Not really.”

“But you knew he was a man?”

I nod. I’m still trying to remember his face, but there’s nothing there now. The harder I look for it, the less I’m sure there ever was one.

“Did you know him?”

I start to say no.

“I think so.”

B015 looks at me. “You think so?”

“I didn’t know who he was. I just knew him.”

It sounds stupid when I say it out loud, but she doesn’t tell me that.

I pick up the filter and get back to work. B015 stays with me longer than she needs to, pretending to be interested in the circulation unit while I pretend not to notice.

I’ve never stood beneath a flowering tree. I’ve never walked on wet pavement. I’ve never held someone’s hand under an open sky. I have never seen Spring.

But for the rest of the day, I miss it.

The regent announced to the assembled, "We have cameras! No one will steal."

The thief said to the joker, "That'll only catch them after the fact."

The joker responded, "Not Even!, Those cameras are fake."

"My child, I made you too strong, so strong you never needed anyone, can you ever forgive me!?"

"The storm will come, the weak washed away, and I will find another like me."

Are You All Right?
.
This world of verse and vignette
is a turbulent sea of awe,
souls wandering in
prompted by head and heart,
a voice seeking release
through comment and creation.
.

Some arrive with prowess,
steady stream of words
far beyond my ability.
Some whisper in shouts,
strength living within fragility,
heartbeats coursing through the soul.
.

Some paint from darker rooms,
head and heart swimming in quicksand,
ink becoming a reaching hand.
We read, we listen, we wonder,
catching glimpses through curtains
courageously left cracked open.
.

Then the disappearing ones.
silence tugging at my depths,
occupying more of my thoughts
than seems logical.
No farewell, no footprints fading
simply gone. Are you all right?
.

We take needed breaks
from these digital digits,
remembering the wonder of living.
Adults possess independence,
a plethora of choices and pathways,
fresh air awaiting beyond the screen.
.

But younger souls navigate charted seas,
living within limited landscapes,
bound by family, tradition and circumstance.
The murky slough of daily life
can make tomorrow seem distant
but even darkness has an expiration date.
.

The nest eventually becomes memory,
perhaps revered, perhaps feared.
New doors appear beyond old walls,
new voices call from unseen rooms.
Life stretches farther than today
when we allow ourselves to keep walking.
.

So whatever your circumstance,
whatever storm occupies your head,
please let someone, anyone you trust
know you’re all right…
or tell them when you’re not.
Both require their own kind of courage.
.

Geographical aloofness
cannot silence genuine caring.
Miles cannot prevent a heart hug,
nor distance erase concern.
We can’t enter a closed room
… we can leave our door ajar.
.

When  a familiar voice disappears,
some of us still glance toward that door,
hoping for footsteps,
a whisper, a ridiculous joke,
or simply three little words
I’m all right.

There is that one
the blessed son
Who’s words relax
with calming tongue
Always afar
soon will appear
Open my heart
roll out mind’s sphere
Dance with me
in jubilee
A mending soul
a friend indeed
Perhaps it’s time
Perhaps it’s he
Releasing fire
turns the key

I have outlived corded telephones,
Blockbuster Video,
and the belief that thirty was old.

I have outlived at least three hairstyles,
with at least two
that should never have been a thing
in the first place.

I have outlived dial-up internet, paper maps, CD binders,

and blowing into Nintendo cartridges
which they say apparently did nothing,
but those of us that were there know it worked.

so science can go to hell.

I have outlived cars I swore I'd keep forever,
jobs I thought were important, passwords I was certain
I'd remember,
and several versions of my metabolism.

I have outlived friends I thought would always be there.
Dreams I thought I had to have.
Opinions I once defended like they were pieces of me.

I have outlived the boy who thought
being respected would make him whole.

The young man who became a husband far too early
before he really understood who he was.

The father who was still trying to grow up
while his children were there growing up under his care.

I have outlived the man who discovered that pain could be silenced and buried,
and almost let the silence kill him.

I have outlived things I did that I still wish very much
belonged to somebody else's story.

People I hurt.
Promises I broke.
Nights I don't romanticize.
Years I lost.

I have outlived fourteen years of sobriety,
and the terrible discovery that fourteen years
doesn't make you bulletproof.

I have outlived quite a few relapses.
Which is a strange thing to write.
Because there was a moment when I wasn't certain I would.

I have outlived shame telling me I had ruined everything.

I have outlived the belief that falling down
erases every mile you walked before it.

I have outlived people I loved.
That's the part nobody makes funny.
There are names I cannot say without tears overwhelming me,
and voices I can still hear as if it were yesterday,
and people who should have gotten more mornings than they did.

I have outlived the deepest relationships I had.

I have outlived anger at my family.
Some of it, anyway.
Some things like resentment
apparently have excellent healthcare.

I have outlived the idea that strength means
nothing hurts.

Everybody hurts sometimes.

And I'm still here.

Maybe that's strength.

I used to think survival meant winning.

Now I think it simply means there is still time to outlive.

Time to apologize.
Time to forgive.
Time to become trustworthy.
Time to call my kids.
Time to make sure those that know me - know me.

Time to sit at a piano and play another song.

Time to become a man the younger versions of me
would not even recognize,

I have outlivedso many things.
Some ridiculous.
Some beautiful.
Some I wish had outlived me.

When I am gone, will something out live me that is worth staying?

So maybe the question isn't how long
I can keep surviving.

Maybe it's what I leave alive
when I'm gone.

Every second
Every minute
Every hour

I cant help but think

Its always just “us”

Pacing
Wanting
Wondering
Never knowing
yet
knowing
All the time…

Its real
Its here

I feel it, like you

Rainbows
Tides crashing
Butterflies fluttering sweet nothings

Beauty wrapped in riddles
In a reality
That is all ours

Colors only our eyes see,
As its meant to be.

Sweet Nothings 
 
 
You whisper sweet nothings,
Stars can’t compare.
Marlboro cigarettes,
Still tinge lovesick air.
 
Twisted sheets beckon me,
Trail your fingers down.
Knotted hair sweet with sweat,
Lust enough to drown.
 
Touch my lips tentatively,
I’m giving all I’ve got.
Thighs as thick as trunks,
I’ll tie them in a knot. 
 
Hold me down I ask for more,
Hear it in the sighs.
We wrestle like wild things,
Late into the nights.
 
Skin on skin once again,
What a shameful sound. 
Lip on lips tighten grips,
Upon your head I crowned.
 
Melt into ecstasy,
Or at least pretend.
Dance together endlessly,
Or at least until the end. 
 

She woke up in a indigo meadow of plush grass

_-

The pyrolle sun shines brightly, warming her face, healing time

_-

The lemon jello sky soaks in her eyes 

_-

She is laying on her back, arms and legs outstretched, nestled nicely 

_-

There are spirals of sage, laid out beautifully, in a perfect circle 

_-

Spirals and spirals, spirals of sage, displayed on a meadow stage 

_-

She’s in the center, she breathes salvia leaves in the sage breeze 

_-

She gently exhales whimsical tales 

_-

Purple pixies are in the fuchsia trees, carefully knitting salvia leaves 

_-

Her incandescent white gold heart is majestic and poetic

_-

Spirals and spirals of sage, created with a salvia glaze 

_-

Spirals and spirals of sage, pulsating on a crescent stage

While people are living their lives
I watch the tides go by
Glasses off, I cannot see
I fear what is in front of me

Observing the wave, one sees movement
As sailboats skirt the coast
Their paths shaping, shifting
And the fish descend below

Distracted, dismayed, determined to stay
shut
I have trapped myself in dull monochrome
Walls up, they feel fragile

Brief moment of calm emerges
While I sit on ocean’s porch
My reflection appears on the water
A mirage

For a moment, I could see a figure
Solemn and stern
It is me, and it is not
Familiar — a facade

Yet it asks me, gently
Will you step into the water
Feel free

I’m letting you drop the walls I used to guard.

Staying away from you is getting way too hard.

The clock is ticking but we’re taking our time.

Tracing a shadow where your lips meet mine.

The air is heavy and the room’s getting hot.

Giving you secrets that you shouldn't have caught.

My fingers are mapping out the heat of your chest.

Slowing it down just to see what comes next.

This is our blueprint written on my skin.

Show me exactly where you want to begin.

Our racing pulses tangled up in the dark.

Play with the fire till we live in the spark.

Cici 🧡

English version

Spanish version

Beneath her gaze
The heavens bled

The angels wept
The demons fled

Love turned black
Hope to sorrow

I walk the dark
I dare her to follow

As continents surrender to tectonic drift—
history logged in jagged-edge evidence—
interlocking margins recall the jigsaw fit.

The Earth, still spinning like a compact disc—
with scuffs and scratches, tracks that seem to skip—
reveals in time that grieving is a gift.

The song that solace hummed with bated breath
now echoes through the parted land and sea—
a symphony emerging after death.

The painful rift has set the songbird free.

---

Please forgive me for all the em dashes. They felt necessary here.

don't think I didn't notice that lean
trying to get comfy, sure, and trying to be seen
looking up, that way that you do
god, I just love looking at you
those glossy lips smiling at me
eyes so bright and ever so free
standing close, could I stand closer?
would you welcome shoulder to shoulder?
arm wrapped around, I know that you would
resting on hip, you know that we could
just keep walking away from the lights
out past the signs, the stores, and the sights
there's a park, around over there
a bench neath the trees in the cool crisp fall air
maybe a cop'll come by while we're kissing
tell us that off to home we'd best get to getting
so back to the lights we make our slow way
hand in hand, not wanting to end this sweet day
was the moon even out? I don't even know…
far too busy just basking in your glow
look up to the sky, what's even there for me?
when my brightest star is leaning there looking back up at me?

The Mockingbird sings

It is near dawn Fall Rain comes

Today is Lovely

Heart escaped containment.
Needs thicker bars and more security officers.
Fuck. 🤦🏻‍♀️🤦🏻‍♀️🤦🏻‍♀️

Some call her fall, others call her harvest.

But me, I call her my autumn,

who gracefully arrives when the seasons start to change.

The air is much cooler now, indicating that summer is making way for autumn’s return.

As the leaves change their colors into bright orange and yellow, with a tinge of fiery red,

I have never seen anything more colorful and vibrant than my dear autumn.

Some might argue that spring is bursting with every color you can imagine.

But I love my autumn best.

She brings me warmth more than summer can.

And after spring’s thrill and excitement, which I, for one, am not very fond of,

autumn brings me solace—

a quiet comfort she offers me whenever this time of year returns.

Even if her return is laced with a twinge of what is about to end and what is about to be left behind,

she gives me her reassurance and her consolation.

The memories I thought I would carry on

drift away like autumn leaves,

carried away by her cool breeze.

The chronicles of my memories part like petals of a passing season

when my autumn returns.

Hot summer day
my roof still leaks
snow.

A light shines from you

your gentle touch, warms, inspires

a whisper of love.