Once Upon a Never...

I'm just gonna go through this thing and post some poetry that might be slightly old, but we need a bit of updating. foshizz yo.

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::little things::

waiting is the worst part
of your being gone.
but there are things,
little things,
that make it tolerable I guess.

little things -
like the memory of the sun shining in your hair
of your fingers drumming
[always drumming] some backward beat
on the table, on your thigh, on my thigh, on the steering wheel.

of your smile.

crazy little things.
distracting things.
little things that make it really not that tolerable, after all.
every smile you gave me echoed in the smile of a stranger
every damn song on the radio
[yeah, even the stupid ones]
every damn song means something
meant something.
little things that mean remembering is the worst part.
the worst part of your being gone.

remembering through the nights
remembering that once upon a time your side of the bed wasn't cold
once upon a time there wasn't quite enough hot water in the mornings
for both of us to take a shower before work
[so we'd have to share]
remembering the drum of your fingers.

remembering is the hardest part
now that the waiting is over.

remembering lost times
all of the little things
[sheets and countertops and showerheads]
all hold a part of you
part of a waiting that stretched into

a longing

that kept on stretching straight into lost.
so now I'm saving hot water in the mornings.
just out of habit.
imagining mock drum-beats on my kitchen table
materializing out the the grainy wood that holds one coffee cup less than it should.

There's a pair of shoes
your shoes
still sitting in the entry.

I guess you're the only one of us left with the luxury to forget.

 Flashdance.

Flickers, flares, sparkles, glints: glimmering, flaunting, flitting. Straight across the ceiling, down the wall, spinning along the window sills, in and out, back and forth. For seconds, they'd be gone, then back in an explosion of tiny tinkerbell twinkles, zipping, whizzing, ricocheting off mirrors, faucets, rings, fingernails and eyeglasses. 

Close your eyes, little one, it's just the lights. See them dance? How could you not? They're reflecting off the backs of your eye sockets. There, that's a waltz, one two three, don't step on her feet, she'll shriek. Disco's not the only dance with lights. 

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I was gonna keep running with that, then I got bored and started watching Gothika, and now all of my creativity has been zapped by lameness. 

That's all.