Cara Writes

We were driving. We were more than driving, we were laughing and I was free. I opened my arms, my eyes, to the majestic autumn mountains, breathing in the faint taste of pumpkin patches, and smiling that I had been released of my prison. It was cold. Too cold for the three-quarter length shirt I sported, hoping that if I dressed like it was still September that it would be. I held my breath; if only to swallow this inevitably ending moment, opening my palms to grasp what this freedom felt like. Words like Keppra and Chemo didn’t exist there, the grass wouldn’t understand it, and the wind wouldn’t allow it. I took pictures just in case one day I couldn’t remember how the cerulean sky was painted and the way the world spun, but it is so ingrained in my being, you can see Polaroid’s of it every time I blink. We ended where we started; back in the car, laughing. I rolled the windows down, wanting to drive with the breeze until it would be too cold for this sort of thing. I drove about a m

this bouquet bears but eleven flowers three weeks late i smile to myself, he doesn’t see he runs ahead as i try arduously to catch up there’s an S shaped curvature against my chest- it is uncomfortable but i embrace it tightly anyway he snores, slightly it keeps me awake i run my knuckles over his u n s h a v e n cheek as he sleeps our hands are clasped in a way they are only at night the blood pulsating between our fingers is comically romantic

This lake of fire licks the surface of dead weeds, dreams, leaves It engulfs all that is left behind. Old stories, broken spirits and drunkards go here to die Young children stare wide-eyed at the blaze, excited about all that is before them They near this lake inquisitive to it’s beauty As they draw close something inside them stirs. These children are children-no-longer; fear stricken of the flames, they draw in the loss of innocence through the vortex of their eyes. They walk away sullen, tarnished by the ashes.

I’m floating, but am I flying? I drift just high enough to see the catfish clawing at the 12 grain bread loaf. I feel aloof. I’m magnetized towards number One, fighting this endless drift that I try to shake off like salty beach water. It clings. I can taste it in my mouth. The door- not the door. The Drift listens as it hovers me over the roof, and plants me by the window. They’re smiling. I knew they would be. My vision blurs, I heave, trying to catch my breath before it escapes and they notice I’m here. I’m not here, I’m not here, I never was.

Between the wall and a soft space has been empty and occupied, And empty, and occupied. Between the wall and a soft space used to smell like oranges, Now it tastes like synthetic grapefruits. Between the wall and a soft space has not grown bigger, I only feel it more vastly. Between the wall and a soft space you will find powdery snow, And ice to skate on. Between the wall and a soft space is boundless clutter, Constantly finding a home. Between the wall and a soft space is a 100 year old Pinchot, Waiting to be sat under. Between the wall and a soft space is an invisible wooden block, Hoping to carve its next destiny. Between the wall and a soft space invites with caution, Not to become the wall Or the soft space.

Recently I've been thinking about all the reasons I love being single, one of them being that I can sleep in my own bed and take up the whole damn thing if I want. Well right now it's 4:34 a.m and I just woke up from probably one of the worst nightmares I've ever had in my whole life. Let me tell you, in this moment I certainly wish there was someone squishing me into the wall.