Tonight could be the night.

I've never broken any hearts - nor has mine been broken by any other.
We break our own hearts when we fail to see what is in front of us.

It's strange how the sound of insecurity, the bell of insecurity rings "Me. Me. Me."

attachment

Every human relationship we get into we also have to find our way out of.

atlanta visit

No longer the need for showy signs of affection, I've accepted that I am married to it, bodily. Like aged love, it was enough to sit for a while together. The familiarity of the trees, the coldness and the moisture. The absence and quiet of winter. A few more months and the cicadas will fill it again with their love song.

lovers

a short poem from one stranger to another. handwritten, it was there then it was gone. in some pant pocket. set accidentally free amongst the keys or digging for the phone some grow in depth, in dimension. some are just an apparition. they flash then disappear. some hang shamelessly in there. words of smoke, of an early morning mist that burns off slowly. it was the sun on our last tuesday.

christmas in venice

The holiday season has finally caught up with Venice. It's raining and cold outside. I'm sitting on a bar stool at Hinano's listening to live blues, waiting for the moment when I'll have to get up and dance. I've seen Satin Blue perform before. They're usually on fire by the end of the first set. Until then, I nurse my Guinness and take stock of my surroundings. Christmas lights dangle from the awning across the street. People coming in have wet hair, pause to brush off their shoulders and take in the warmth. In the corner a couple are locked in an open-mouthed kiss. They have a small, protective entourage of beautiful people with them. At the table beside them two regulars in dirty jeans and plaid flannel shirts play pool. One of them bobs his head approvingly to the music while the other, taking a shot, exposes his fuzzy plumber's crack. I appreciate the juxtaposition. At the end of the bar a woman with braided hair, grinning madly, looks up from her notebook as the white-haired musician to her close right bends a note plaintively on his guitar...