Why is it always when I want to write
I cut and fight...
I'm awake again while its still night
Not even a hint of morning light...
Beneath my wrist there are violin strings
But their music feels lost in the past...
Dedicated to my dear friend Sandra, who has fallen...
I use to be a writer
a painter, a muse...
I've been telling stories
ever since I was a kid...
I really miss you more than you could ever know...
The last 18 months or so felt like so much more...
Hands feel like ice;
clasped together tightly...
You like a lighthouse,
if you leave me now...
Daylight is descending
through the curtain to...
Two's company and
Three's a crowd but only one...
Though I shed no tears,
I am crying...