Waiting roomWe've had conversations whileWaiting room by dreamingshadow
we've sat in imagined waiting rooms,
nervously awaiting feedback
on the condition of our emotions. Don't fuck about,
just say it like it is.
And I wondered if I was angry, if I was hurt,
wondering if that was even okay;
a nurse wouldn't deliver the news in front of him
to leave me to watch his expression fall into darkness
while we watched weeks of sunsets
and talked about how clouds look like cotton bandages
on an aggravated wound of sky.
Your sunset expressions were always beautiful
and your eyes always made of an undefined anywhere;
but I couldn't marvel at your fading colours when
I couldn't roll a sunrise under your weary eyelids.
On days when I'd come in, arms laden with magazines
that told of lives as glossy as a rinsed scalpel,
I didn't know if I was tending to you, or me,
If our heads were houses
we would have always had a light on at an upstairs window
through the night.
I hoped one day
a discarded star in a
I am now offering up the short novel I wrote in seven days in November 2013 by request only. I'm not publishing it online.
If you're interested, message me, and I'll send it to you. Lame ass blurb:
In the breaths of draught let in by his presence in the doorway, her nightdress rippled a song of midnight sea; the impact of his own breath like a ghost boat sliding across her body. She was a blank white queen, like a human chess piece, surrounded by black squares, and only words now could be written upon her. She could be anything, it seemed, but not enough.
What is there to do when you feel nothing?
And how do you deal with a life you suddenly find yourself in, answering the surprisingly difficult questions from your children about the nature of the world and living?
existing follows the story of a writer who desperately tries to write himself, and his family, to a better ending.
A chapter preview can be found here: