Musings of JR Simmang

On the Fourth Day He’s feeling like he should shave. It’s been since that night and it is way past 5 o’clock. His eyes are red and crusted over, presumably from crying, though he promised himself a long time ago that he would no longer allow his eyes to water. He thinks a lot about his mother right now, her kind, warm embrace and comforting words had soothed him before. They could do the same thing now. He needed to hear he was a good man with a good and patient heart so that he could learn to live on when the one part of him that pines still will become just another part of him. He wishes he could see her again. To remember her face. He went back to the bar the night before only to find the same beefeater that found him first. He didn’t feel much like being reacquainted, so he sat and watched as other couples camped and flirted. Helena. Helena, my love.

I haven't been on here in a while, and it feels a little awkward trying to get back in to it, like falling off a bike and swearing it off for a time. So, I thought I would ease back in with something I am more comfortable with, a poem. "Bespoke and speak" Our last communique tempestuous and writhing with the agony of a too short message. For within that spanse expectations hang nigh, floating and weaving, sputtering and spoiling; Words losing sight of themselves, drifting further and further into static. Dialogue, dear precious conversation, confined within that delicate prison. Pick up. My words would truer find your ears were your ears listening. Pick up. This unholy ringing in my ears leaves my breath baited. Pick up and speak to me.