that's mrs. mediocrity to you

breathing flowers in, after dawn.

simple words that get stuck in my throat, for days.

moments in mid-afternoon that bring tears to my eyes.

sunsets waiting on the horizon, always with a promise.

a mirror that refuses to show what lies beneath the surface.

seasons that rattle through my chest, calling me to remember.

blisters that heal and become callouses, rough evidence of pain.

a heart that breaks in its own small way each time you turn a page.

the constant digging for my soul that wears my fingers to the quick.

a silver necklace that says hope, left broken on the dresser.

making molds of the moon to keep in a glass jar.

standing in the dark, listening for sunrise.

a song that whispers even as i sleep.

threading words on needles and pricking my finger.

that one drop of blood, there, on the corner

of the page.

::

This post is part of One Shot Wednesday

looking in, again, though not wanting to, exactly, having spent some time these past few months thinking the glass was reversed, thinking i was safe in that warm, cozy room with the lamp, the glowing fire, the purring kitten.

yet here i stand, cold feet, alone, in the dark.

i failed to notice my own reflection as the sun set behind my back, failed to compensate for my silhouette, my shadow, the mirror image that smiled, even though she knew the truth.

i never have quite made it, there… to the inside.

oh, i’ve had tickets a few times, given to me by friends, loves, even chance. pretty tickets with golden edges that promised more than could ever be delivered. tickets that were bigger than the event. tickets that looked like the real thing, though as it turned out, were counterfeit.

and now i stand here, watching this woman who sits by the fire of her own contentment, the warmth of complacency spread through her limbs, its glow apparent on her face. there is a book, and tea, and she wears warm socks.

but she is a destination that cannot be reached. she is a mirage.

or a vision.

if i snapped her photograph, right this second, you might see a shadow, or an indentation where she’d been sitting, but you would never be certain she had actually been there. you would question her existence.

i don’t cry as i stand here, watching her. i don’t yearn, or covet, or hope to be there, next to her, on that couch. i simply watch, silently. intent only on the sorrow in her eyes.

she isn’t me.

she’s simply someone else’s yesterday.

some lost soul i followed home who looked happy, from a distance.

from the outside, looking in.

she is not me.

she just

is.

it really does take two to tango.

compromise is hard, but it’s almost always worth it.

a warm hug can instantly change your outlook.

a heart can forgive more than it can forget,
but it can forget more than it can live without.

sharing is a necessary part of life.

no one likes being taken for granted.

it’s nice to be taken care of you when you’re sick.

true love is made up of millions of boring, everyday
moments: it is your job to see their magic.

history repeats itself. it also keeps you grounded.

being polite is very, very important.

love is a covenant based on hope.

holding hands by the fire beneath the moon
is the perfect way to spend an evening.

you can never have too many smiles.

sometimes you both win. sometimes no one wins.

it’s possible to grow in more than one direction.

diamonds might be a girl’s best friend,
but clean dishes are her soulmate.

it’s always a good time for flowers.

love actually will keep you together.

a look can say so much more than words.

in the middle of the night, the touch of a toe
can be just exactly all you need.

::

Happy 15th, Mr. M.

Today I am over at Vision & Verb

enjoying the quiet…

everything you’ve ever heard

about forgiveness

is true.

::

Well, it’s not really, purple is, but that’s how the song goes, and yesterday when I woke up, it was dreary and rainy and misty and foggy and everywhere I looked, there was gray.

So I wrote about that grayness, over at the blue muse, wrote about questions with no answers, and all the things I’m not afraid of, and the one thing that I am. Which is not gray.

And then later in the day, I found out that I will have to work all weekend if I want to go away with my family next weekend, even though I was supposed to be taking a jewelry class from a metal clay master on Saturday as a gift from a friend.

That is the way my life works (tiny violins playing in background).

And that is the way it worked yesterday, as gray poured from the sky, for hours. I don’t think it rained steadily, all day long, even once this summer. But yesterday was that day. And along with all that gray came the feeling sorry for myself and the melancholy mood and the wishing I were anywhere but here, and then also, this:

I went to check on the outdoor kitties, who don’t wish to stay inside even when it’s raining, and there was Brett, standing on two legs, peeking in the window of the back door in that cute little way he does, front paws up on the sill, meowing his cute little let-me-in meow that makes his nose wrinkle.

However.

Just then, when I looked out at him looking in, he had a big, fat chipmunk in his mouth. And even still I could see his little nose wrinkling, still see that somehow he was trying to meow around a mouth full of chipmunk fur, and was asking me to let him in.

Well now, I couldn’t tell if the chipmunk was still alive or not, but either way, I was not opening that door. So I walked away in the hopes that he would get tired of the game and take his prey elsewhere. I came back five minutes later, but he was still there, peering in the window, still meowing with his mouth full.

So, I waited five more minutes and went back again. This time, the chipmunk was, um, clearly dead. Ugh. And by this time it was raining so hard that the back entryway was starting to flood, which meant that I was going to have to do something about the chipmunk before he starting floating his way toward the door.

Off I went, in search of my rain boots, and just then, the mail lady came by to drop off a package, which she had to set down right next to Mr. Chipmunk’s remains, as it was the only dry spot left. Double Ugh. Poor mail lady. Poor chipmunk. Poor me who now had to go out and find the shovel in the pouring rain and clean up this mess.

A mess that was made by my sweet little kitten, who, ten minutes later, was dry and happy and purring in my lap.

And this kitten, well, he’s gray, too.

What a coincidence.