Coup de Foudre

green plant

 

 

 

 

 

 

So lonely

My heart aches

A void to fill

An empty space

Wanting, yearning

Oh so much

For this to be more

Than just lust

So lonely

Everything feels so far away

I don’t want one more day to be wasted feeling this way

I say, I think, I don’t need rescuing

But what I really mean is

Be right, be real, be meant for me

And please, come rescue me

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Disillusioned with Love

dissapearingcitygirlWhat is love, he asks

If it as pure and true

As she proclaims

Then how can it disappear

In a matter of days

Vanished

Ponder

He’s left to wonder

The other wanders

Further, further

She puts distance between them

An effort to protect her heart

Not quite knowing

No longer trusting

Doubting what is good and true

She reflects

Inward

There’s comfort there

In this space

She’s come to know so well

And so she stays

Inside her shell

For now

“Close Your Eyes”

blue eyesHe walked into the surgical suite hand-in-hand with the anesthesiologist.

Lifted onto the table, he was wrapped up warmly in a blanket.

I stood by him so I could look into his beautiful eyes and soothe him. I held his hand and told him he was going to be ok.

The lights, so bright, they bothered both of our eyes. I told him to close his.

I know how hard that is, to close your eyes, because then you can no longer see what’s happening, you hate to give up what little control you have left.

I smelled the anesthesia. I hate that smell.

It’s one of those scents you can’t describe until it’s there and then you know exactly what it is.

Like chemical bubble gum in a plastic air mask.

I was worried that if I leaned in too close to him, I might breathe it in too and pass out right there on the floor.

Just the thought of that disoriented me for a second, because my mind immediately sprung into panic mode, thinking about what might happen if I couldn’t be there for him.

He tried to fight it. He wriggled and wrestled to get away from it. I tried even harder to keep his eyes trained on me, to stay in his sight so I would be the last person he saw.

I always think about that when I go under.

It’s the nurse who holds my hand or rubs my arm or looks into my eyes to assure me I’ll be ok, that she’ll be there when I wake up.

That’s the last thing I see and the first thing I remember when I come to.

It’s comforting. It’s better than the bright lights.

“You’re going to be ok,” I whisper into his ear.

“Mommy loves you.”

Kiss on the forehead.

He’s out.

I walk away on rubbery legs.

Breathe. Repeat.

Then wait in anguished anticipation.

And pray that my baby will be ok.