Two fingers

I asked for a Macallan 20 year old Scotch

You told me the 10 was really good

And poured me two fingers in an etched glass

I had just been hiking


Climbing mountains

Over and through the hills

All night long

An epic journey that took me 8 hours my first go

But went so much faster in my dream

Time was cut in half, my breathing, half as hard

I moved around the boulders with finesse and ease,

Like smooth Scotch whisky on my tongue

I’m losing you fast

I lost you

I guess it wasn’t meant to be

I’m here alone now with my thoughts

I used to feel like you were with me

even when far away

But now I feel the cold

I sense the fear and disappointment

I am sorry I let you down

I am sad and dismayed


I ask for another two fingers in my dream

Hoping the smooth fire will warm the ice

I feel inside


all night

fan turning

comforter between my legs

flipping back and forth

getting up to pee

walking aimlessly through the dark halls

grinning from ear to ear in the nightlight’s soft illumination

feeling flutters deep within

and feeling a bit insane

with love

infatuation or lust

(I’ll take the combo, please)

My toddler is sleeping next to me

I curl up into his arms and smell his sweet skin

his chest moves rhythmically up and down

and I latch onto his joy and calm and sweetness

to calm my inner stirrings

ground myself (try)

sleep again (its not goodbye)

just a few winks in this disastrous night

a married mama full of feelings and fright

for what have I done?

it shan’t be good

to wind up alone, knocking on wood

in hopes to reclaim all I threw away

for another reality that surely won’t stay

Continue reading “tossing”


(The other you)

The way-back-when you

I dreamed of you last night

A saying good-bye of sorts (finally, right?)

Just a few sunsets later…

You were marrying her (again)

A few of the wedding guests remembered you and me together (back then)

And still believed in us

And argued with dour faces that I was the one

for you

Even your son, in my dream a blond and well-mannered sweet 8 or 9 year old, made the case

He somehow seemed to know

But you didn’t

Or couldn’t

Or wouldn’t

And I found myself awkwardly wondering why I had been invited

to this whole spectacle to begin with

So I will leave you there, awake now

at the country club and ball

And forgive you and forgo you

for another…



Is that how it is spelled? Is that what is happening? It is. It is.

How did this happen? Close contact – virtual contact through a computer screen. Hashing out ideas, mixing thoughts, baking offerings of thoughtfulness and kindness to each other. You are smart and thoughtful and engaging and calm. You are funny and quick and sexy as fucking hell.

I am lost.

Suddenly, my world has turned upside down. I am a little girl, sprung with dopamine sparkles. Fully aware of the complexity and ridiculousness of my situation – and a probable unrequited one at that, which is the icing on the cake of this shit show.



You are married. I am married. We have children. Families, youthful and happy. Yours. My marriage is not happy. My husband and I don’t have the connection we used to. I was never in love with him in the same way. No sparkles. Just reassurance and safety and a net. But the net is an illusion.

We are all going to die.

Why do we play around?

Why do we not grab each other and start wildly kissing with abandon?

Because though we are racing towards our deaths, as insignificant as the mammoth dinosaur bones you were awestruck over at the museum… we still must participate in reason and the social construct of normalcy.

After all, this isn’t real either.

Or is it?

I highly doubt you have a thought of me in this way. But I did see you looking at me from across the room… you did put your arm around my waist and pull me in for a picture. And this was all surely for naught; for good nature and for happiness to see your friend, but not perchance your lover.

I am sick with illusion. Love sick.

Your wife is impossibly beautiful and thin. And you are happy and love her. My husband is fat and unhealthy and troubled. And I am so tired of living this way.

I am round and soft and old. My tummy hangs and my chin has lines. My eyes are hooded, my teeth crooked, and my thoughts drift wildly to you. I used to be beautiful.

You would never chose me. I live in a world of illusion and fantasy. It’s like trying on a dress that you think makes you look sexy, and then seeing a picture of yourself and realizing how out of shape you are. I’m trying on a man in my brain that is hotter than me. It will never be.

And even if I am wrong and he does think of me when he moans alone, tucking his hands in his warm crotch, his cock throbbing as his hands go up and down, back and forth as he thinks about sticking his tongue in my mouth…

Does that look like two divorces and a new marriage and a blending of broken families and a new life?

Of course not.

Not in my wildest dreams. Life just doesn’t happen that way.

It is far more likely that my illusion is just that – an illusion. Shaped by years of settling and forgoing the deep romance lying dormant in my bones and tissues and blood.

The world is cold and dark and lonely. I will learn the hard way, over and over again.

God knows I love you. So does my Grandma, up in heaven.

They look fondly down on us, at play in the fields of the Lord.

Except they are probably right in whispering to me that it’s just me playing.

And playing with unrequited fire.

So I will set down my sword of heart and spark and desire. I will uncurl my thoughts around your legs, looking into your eyes in my mind one last time.

I will turn and walk away, my black dress with flowers swaying in the breeze. My boots, half unzipped, trudging along the endless dusty city sidewalk.

I’m careful not to step on the cracks.

I turn the corner and I’m blinded by the sun.