This year Liam and I made plans to join our wonderful neighbors for a night of trick-o-treating. It was rainy, windy, gross weather in general. But let’s face it, nothing can get in-between a child and their candy on Halloween night. With umbrellas and flashlights in hand, we persevered, walking up and down neighboring streets, ringing on door bells and looking cute. The kids came out with quite a stash. It was a wonderful night of memories.
Did I win this time?
You yelled louder.
Or was that me?
Sounds came out,
less like words and more like convulsions,
symptoms of a lingering disease.
Let’s call it a draw.
I’ll pocket my urban dictionary.
Find a corner
breath, hug my knees
and deal with yet another invasion of disembodied memories.
Ones filled with blue flowers painted on white silk
and a handful of kisses waiting in the dark.
I clench my jaw around my rage,
tight like a tourniquet, release it and my screams will flow
like a brand new rhapsody.
My fury is my only comfort now.
It rocks me to sleep at night,
kicks my ass to work the next day.
I promise myself a blank page tomorrow,
one you and I can fill with our own personal palette of bitter and sarcasm.
Laughable. Tragic. Calamity.
You and I
and the cracked stories we choreograph
in the self-reflecting mirrors of our minds.