Saturday, April 19, 2014


emma roberts c/o tyler shields photography

Once upon a few years ago I had a conversation with a young man and I told him: Never put off anything you could do today until tomorrow. You may only get one chance to do something. Needless to say I ran into him the other day, Thursday??, and he reminded me that he listened and it was an amazing thing that happened with him and a lovely young woman. He also reminded me that I also asked him to "ALWAYS BE YOURSELF" and it was the one thing that guided him through dark times in his relationship with himself.  And yes, they are still happy together.  On that note... 

I will step off track for a moment to... explain something. The hardest part about being a writer is trying to explain my style to people. Especially the ones I absolutely adore. I don't write the things I want to say, but can't say. Typically, I say the things I want to say, and if I can't say them, I wait for the courage to. I am sorry if I hurt anyone. Please understand, I wouldn't share a story inspired by or meant for someone here before sharing it with them or asking to post it. My stories, blog intro/selections, etc may have a bit of directed insight for my friends and family, who have shared a bit of their life with me and I try to keep it ambiguous... but it's nothing more; the writing is the past right now. I'm not in a place to share the new. I wish... I will get to that place someday. 

Now this week has had it's share of tears, happy ones and very sad ones that were both mine and other people's. A young woman's suffering reminded me of a story about missing someone and how consuming that feeling can be. The Dalai Lama says that suffering is a choice, pain is real. The suffering that comes from the insecurity of romantic attachment is unnecessary because it is the fantasy of true love. Love is trusting, open and giving without restriction. 

Please enjoy if you've never read... and as always live, love and breathe happily with yourself and others. 

kisses, m. 

I’ll Cry Tomorrow.

I’ll Cry Tomorrow. It’s what I think when I roll over in the sheets once more. It doesn’t matter if my tears come today. I can still smell you in these sheets and taste you on my skin. When I close my eyes you are still here with me. No mistake can be made. The salty taste of you is still fresh in my mouth. When I swallow all I taste is your kiss. The scent of you lingers in my hair. And when it touches my face I instinctively reach over to find you when you’re not there. But I don’t want to move. I like laying here in our sheets. For more than three days I’ve slept in them. And now another day beckons to me to wake.

I can feel the warmth of the sunlight against my skin that breaks through the smallest crack in the window. There’s no point in opening my eyes. The darkness can not block out the ray of light. It penetrates the thin veil of my eyelids. Redness spreads across my view as the warmth crawls up my bare legs. A warmth that reminds me of you as I let it climb toward the place between my legs. A place that you like to linger when you’re here. Here with me.

The night before last night I almost spilled a glass of wine on the bed. It fell when I leaned into that place you lay your head when I’m letting my mouth wander. I wanted to see how you see things when I let my mouth keep you from forgetting me. The same way I’m trying to keep you close to me. In my mind the way you’re in my mouth. Then there in that place the glass tumbled. The spill that almost was missed the bed.

Almost isn’t the same as doing. And I never changed the sheets. I had my reason for leaving them. I wanted your smell to stay with me another day. Today, Tomorrow, and Yesterday have and will happen. I find ways to focus on the present only knowing that you’re still in bed when I get home. Somehow I know they won’t bring you back, but I keep telling myself that I’ll change them tomorrow.

Now it’s Sunday. More than three days since I’ve seen you. Been with you. Touched you. Remembering how we touched 18 different times between the covers that morning before you left. The phone rings. I ignore it. Because I know it isn’t you. You promised you wouldn't call to tell me you aren't coming… And I’m not picking up.

I’m right it’s not you. Opening my eyes, I sit up and listen to the voice. It’s Thompson. He tells me that it will be another day. You’re away until tomorrow. Tomorrow. That’s when you’ll be closer. Closer to where? The call ends with a slam and I’m wrapping my arms in the 300 thread count Egyptian cotton and leaning forward. Before long I’m standing in the middle of the room with the smell of your arms wrapped around my bare skin.

More than three days since there were tears. It’s been more like four or five since we touched. You’re gone. But you’re still here. Here in the room. If you can taste and smell something doesn’t that make it real? Two sensory experiences and the rest of your mind fills in the gaps. I know my senses are lying. And I’m sleeping with your ghost. Cheating on the present with the ghost of the past while you’re away.

Instantly when I cross the room I then circle back because the smell is fading. The taste no longer seems as vivid. More than ever the tears want to be here. There’s something missing and I’m thinking that tomorrow is today.

Tomorrow. We keep saying tomorrow when we should be saying today. Tomorrow I’ll pick up the laundry. Tomorrow I’ll go to the grocer’s. Tomorrow I’ll get out of bed earlier. Tomorrow you’ll be home. Tomorrow I’ll see your face. And tomorrow when you’re not closer… Tomorrow, I’ll cry tomorrow.

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