Beside Me

I couldn’t stop crying, and you just sat with me.  We were both exhausted beyond consciousness, but adrenaline raced through me as my anxiety took over.  You talked of the mundane.  Of your aunt.  Of your cat.  Of the time we’d spent together the day before.  Eventually, I calmed enough to sleep, too tired to do anything else, and we said goodnight before drifting off.

It was way past when you normally go to bed when I got home from work, upset and irrational.  A family party was why I was so lucky to find you up, and I was grateful for your presence.  I still am, every time you send me a message.  Every time you call.  I can only hope you continue to stay with me, beside me, no matter how far away you are.

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Three Whispered Words

You are my
good morning and
goodnight.
You’re my sunshine
when there’s daylight
and my moonlight
when it’s night.
You’re my lightning storm
dancing on the lake
and you’re my first snow
drifting gently to the ground.
You’re my autumn leaves
making a patchwork quilt
on the mountains
and my summer roses
bright and fragrant.
You’re my three whispered words
in the middle of the night
when everyone else is sleeping.
You’re my love
my life
my light
and I couldn’t be happier
than I am
now that I’m
in love with
you.

The End of June

By the end of June
the air outside burns your lungs
and it becomes incredibly
difficult to breathe.

By the end of June
storms roll in
with an angry wind
and a terrible sort of beauty.

By the end of June
it’s hard to do anything
and no one really
wants to move.

By the end of June
the frost has killed the
summer roses you would have
picked to put upon her grave.

By the end of June
it’s the middle of December
and we’re all a little broken
missing a mother
a daughter
a teacher
a friend
and it takes a little while
before dancing feels okay.


For June Marie Poodiack, my dance teacher and friend of more than twelve years.  I’m grateful to have known you for so long, and I will miss you every time I dance.

January 31, 1972 – December 16, 2014

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Radio Silence

It’s like I’m
always getting
your voicemail
except without the
personalized greeting.

Calling it four weeks
hurts less than
saying it’s been
a month
since you messaged me last.

It scares me
how quickly
time can seem to pass
without you here.

This radio silence
this static at the
other end of the line is
slowly unraveling my seams.

Four weeks
and I worry about you
a little more
every day.