Posts Tagged ‘Poems.’


Most people would refer to my numerous fascinations as normal. Typical. Ordinary.
But to you, ordinary never existed when it came to me. I was alien. Everything about me was starry.
My fascination with the Holocaust Period, my enchatment with the Titanic enchanted you, the spaced out gaze I got everytime I looked at the great orb that is the moon as it covered the earth with its pale light, my urgent need to traipse on the surface of the moon and somehow inscribe our mark-proving the existence of our love; was hilarious to you.
You would throw your head back and your shoulders would shake with mirth at my insistence that we had to make it to the moon.
You’d remind me that I didn’t even love anything Science.
And that realization made us sink into a crumpled up mess of hysterical laughter,
And so we resorted to painting the moon-
An oily canvas and paint-filled faces later, we presented our artificially real moon to the world,
It was yellow. A palish yellow that reflected in our eyes,
It had rocky edges and a bit of greyish paint on the sides,
Science had suggested that we include the greyish sand,
So on that night that we painted the moon, we respected Science,

Nights like these when the moon is crescent make me horribly nostalgic.
I am now strictly fascinated by full moons-another thing that you would have found alien.
I keep our fake moon in the ceiling of my room,
It creates an illusion that even the moon rises with the sun,
It keeps you here.
It creates an aura of your presence.
It reminds me that your ashes are not floating, or sinking somewhere in the Atlantic,
For one short minute,
Our fake moon brings you home.




Posted: February 8, 2015 in Uncategorized

Alone with the nocturnal sounds, he slept on,
As the angry relentless wind sliced through the night, he slept on,
Amid the howling of a hungry dog, he slept on,
And the violent wind carried his mumbles in the opposite direction swallowing them up in the black darkness,
He slept on.
The night drifted on.
The distant murmur and clutter of indistinct voices did nothing to alter his dead sleep,
The clinking of blue high-heeled shoes that steadily climbed up his stairs drew him even deeper into his slumber,
The creaking of his bedroom door as it slowly swung open made him smile at the nonsensical dream he was having,
He sighed.
He slept on.
The cold tips of slim fingers as they touched his face, youthful in sleep slowly woke him up,
He opened his drowsy eyes and slowly started with the ankles,
Dragged his gaze slowly up,
Paused at the narrow waist,
The fitting blue dress that covered a slim body,
His gaze took in the gleaming blade at her goddess hands,
The wicked dancing of her equally wicked eyes,
He registered dimly the rapid beating of his heart,
And as the blade sunk in his chest,
He slept on.