In the end.

What are you thinking she asks?

There is no answer. Only the silence that she has now come to know.

What happened to all the words?

It seems they were ripped violently from this plane

only to be absorbed by black matter that will never let them go.

Where is the laughter? Why has it died away? Were there no watering holes to fuel it’s liquid needs?

What of the tears?

They have dried and formed small hills of salt on the plains of her existence.

Where is the proof of lovely times past?

It has disappeared like invisible ink.  Only to be seen again when acidic juice falls upon the pages. Revealing what was but is no longer.

What of the heart?

It wills upon itself scar tissue, in the hope of covering open wounds.

But it wasn’t all bad. Right?

 

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Notary.

Null and void.

No longer does she wait.

It was but a dream state, that felt like immersion in liquid amber.

Hot, sweet, and tangy, with a dash of salt.

Richly hued and imbued with tones of cotton candy, Crème Brûlée and swirling Sangria.

Now, simply a bowl filled with the remnants of water colours mixed together. Gently graying as each moment ticks by.

When the hues are gone, there will be nothing left.

And parted lips, that so longed to be next, will silently close.

Ending a very long chapter of the heart.

Quenching The Soul…

 

Wetness …

It is life.

Today I stood on the sand and let the cold, salty, dark waters of the Pacific wrap around me. 

I craved its soft, cool touch.  I needed its beauty.

With each liquid and silky caress I began to feel free.  ‘

As I stood there, the salty wind whispered to me as it tangled my hair.  I didn’t try to smooth it down.  Instead I simply closed my eyes and let the elements affect me. 

The water welcomes me home. 

It is the essence of my being. 

The birth of life.

Strength.

Knowing.

Desire.

And,  when I find myself emotionally parched and brittle, I return to it.

The beginning .

Cape Cod Longing…

A Walk At Low Tide

 

I miss Cape Cod.     

The last time I visited was in September 2009.  It’s been much too long.      

I remember it was stunningly beautiful in the Fall.      

The sunlight was dappled and welcoming.       

The Indian Summer air was warm and left lingering remnants of salt on my lips.       

I recall a red moon rose on the first night and it’s reflection was caught  in the wetness of the low tide.      

The lobster was delicious and decadent and the streets bustled with vibrant energy.       

There’s something romantic and endearing about this area of the country.  Mysterious and historic as well.       

And just to touch on a bit of the historic: Most aren’t aware that the Pilgrims first landed in Province Town before the Mayflower came to rest at Plymouth Rock.       

Some of the oldest Pilgrim cemetaries in our country our located there.  I love to walk through them, reading the names and epitaphs on the crumbling yet amazingly interesting head stones.  In the oldest parts you can find bits of the headstones that have fallen off.  Shards of layered stone that tingle when you hold them.  As if still emitting energy from the past.      

The magic begins the moment you start your drive on the Cape.       

I’m always so excited to see the wild turkeys on the side of the road.  So much so that I squeal and want to stop the car to walk with and photograph them.       

I love saying the names of the towns out loud as I pass the signs that direct you to them.  It’s just fun to think of living in a town called ‘Sandwich’ don’t you think (just a bit of history: It’s the oldest town on the Cape and one of the oldest in the United States)?       

But my favorite moment is when the sand dunes come into sight.  There’s something so magical about them.       

One day I hope to own a cottage there.  Somewhere to simply ‘be’ and ensconce myself in pure, quiet beauty.      

Yes, I’m longing for the Cape…