It seems a rite of passage in today’s world to be ghosted.  I’ve had my fair share of ghosts.  They could cohabit a very large house together.  I sometimes imagine them tucked into their rooms, folding the laundry, and sharing their pastimes in a Rachel-free zone.  I admit it gives me a twisted feeling in the pit of my stomach.  Have I been rejected? 

I stood at the edge of the reflecting pool With water cascading, lush and cool I jumped into that pool of sun And sank simply down with lungs That filled easily and felt freely To live and breathe each day brimming In that reflecting pool When God reflects, I thought, it might be something Fresh like this with cold gulps of water between billowing breaths I sat and thought that I’d lived for a day Until I realized that I was in shades of grey Like concrete smacks! But blue at

The key is to detach and then to reduce it down to the roots, strong solemn things that grip the body, and smooth out the mind in copse rippled monotony. It’s the giving in of things and letting out of things until the spine bends the wrong way, then sets, waiting to be snapped back, not at once but continuously creaking at the vertebrae. One, two, and three. Society does take its toll on me and I learn that I cannot bend the wrong way as other people before me, trying to de

I wish that you’d listened to the call of leaves and the purring in trees, but you got distracted, turned away (as they do), and left me astray on the path to the wild ravine. It’s okay this way. I’m used to it, admittedly. And I’m not what I’d call gentle beneath. Biologically predisposed to think diagonally, to cut through the grove and creep nocturnally, catty-cornered to the sun soaked drove. People have got stand in line, so I stretch miles between us, chance the of