I wake slowly, gauging the silence and the scent of the room.
He doesn’t live with me anymore, but he visits sometimes. He leaves me notes where I will be sure to find them. Little folded-up messages.
He misses me.
He wishes we could be together.
He wishes I understood …Inky liquid rage





Red muck
I was reading a poem by Stephen Crane . . . Red Devils is the title.
Many red devils ran from my heart And out upon the page They were so tiny The pen could mash them And many struggled in the ink It was strange To write in this red muck Of things …Red muck