Confessions of December

As December contemplated
all that she was, the seasons
she had weathered,
and wondered if the hardness
had totally consumed her, if
she had become the frigidity,
dispassionate,
or if the possibility of diversion
lay buried just beneath
the coldness of the surface,
waiting for the spirit of March
to uncover it,
revitalizing the unfeeling
the creeps unnoticed into winter,
March peeks his head
from beneath the blanket of December
(first cautious)
and gasps for air
like a baby painfully reaches for first
inhale outside the womb,
seizing a breath to call it's own
(now cocky).
December, encouraged by the perception
of companionship from March,
which in actuality, was more
an effort of his independence,
reaches out to embrace
the vigor, hungry for the passion
and warmth in his touch,
her icy fingers close around
his tenderness, her numbness
betraying the strength of her hold on him,
unconsciously preying
on his vulnerability
suffocating him in his own
naivetté,
unintentionally
devouring the innocence of March.

Beyond the Shadow of Your Heartache

No dreams left to shine
like stars against the nightfall
in your heart,
cool desperation of darkness
overcomes you,
permeates even the secret corners
of your existence
(no place left to hide),
ensnarling your emotions,
breathing doubt into everything
you do, silent screams
of hesitation,
hissing desolate cries
that wail relentless
through the hollow spaces
left by love departed,
overwhelming the emptiness
with loneliness
and bittersweet echoes of
laughter and weeping
sweetenss and despair.

The gloom settles in and becomes
your comfort,
pushes you deeper in --
to the edge of
yourself,
but refuses to let go,
and you're too alone to fight,
too tired to even try;
the hurt becomes your crutch,
an excuse
to keep on crying,
to wallow in your loneliness,
a reason
not to trust yourself,
not to trust in love again.

Desperately you search
the void,
but no moon rises up
above the blackness,
and so you stumble blindly
through the midnight
in your soul,
treading circles around the
emptiness,
not seeing that the shade
entombing you
is only an eclipse
where the pain has laid across your heart,
an obscurity of silhouetted memories
towering tall above reality
(distorted illusions of hope),
not even realizing that
beyond the shadow of your heartache,
a promise lies there waiting
for you to venture past the darkness,
for you to trust in love again.

Woman in the Old Blue Station Wagon

Expressionless,
worn face taunt and stained from years
of lifeless routine
and secrets
and tears
and forgotten dreams...
the unkempt woman sitting heavily behind the wheel
of the faded blue station wagon that leaned wearily
on the driver's side,
pulls to a stop in front of the gas station;
A man, 'Joe' she calls him,
thinning hair pulled back into a straggly ponytail,
steps out the squeaky door,
hikes his torn, grease-stained jeans
up to rest comfortably beneath
the roll of his bulging belly,
inhales deeply, savors one last drag from the
cigarette stub dangling between
smoke-calloused fingers,
drops it thoughtlessly to the sidewalk, and
makes a ritual of crushing the leftover life
with the pointed toe
of his fake leather cowboy boot;
Inside, he buys
a carton of Camels,
a case of beer,
a fifth of Jack...
flirts with the girl at the cash register,
full of life... and dreams,
young enough to be his daughter,
not yet old enough to understand the disappointment
of life
and dreams...
The sagging woman
waiting in the droopy blue station wagon
(both of which have seen better days, neither
of which have anything better to do today),
watches the familiarity
between her man
and the young girl
with the straight blonde hair
hanging down the back of her tight black t-shirt
to her skinny blue jeans,
a faint twinge of jealousy
or envy...
Joe rolls up the sleeve of his worm denim shirt
the girl smiles delightfully and
eagerly reaches out
her thin white arm with the dangly bracelets
and seductively traces a pointed red fingernail
along the graceful curves of the serpent
tattoed on the muscled forearm Joe proudly displays;
The woman winces as the girl
boldly pulls back the front of her shirt
(shameless)
revealing a lone rose inked onto the curve
of her left breast,
Joe smirks -- lustful, toothy grin,
hungry eyes fixed on the red and black bud
contrasting against the creamy white swell of flesh;
'Slut' the woman screams silently
to the girl in the window;
Self-consciously she runs a ringless,
nail-bitten hand through
the drabness of her tousled brown hair and
pushes a few stray strands away from
her insipid, unmade face
into the stylessness behind her ears;
Vaguely she remembers
the girl she once was
the dreams she once held...
her life before it had settled into habit --
a routine of waiting outside the gas station
in the understanding blue station wagon
holding her tear-stained secrets,
her life before the day Joe
walked into the gas station where
she was the leggy blonde-haired
cash register girl in the window,
and stole her heart
and her dreams;
She glances back inside,
(just for a brief moment)
at Joe and the girl, laughing
together...
A lonely tear slips down her cheek
'Joke's on you, honey' she whispers --
to them both.

She feels a herself smile
as she drives away
in the old blue station wagon.