After I killed you

It’s odd.
When I leave behind
the confinement of
the cold, conditioned
Subway train
And the smell of rain,
fresh on the pavement
arouse my senses,
dormant otherwise.
I think of you
lying down,
the green of the grass
so filled with life
beneath, mocking you.
The blood curling in
the clarity of the greenery
Like a crimson spell, opaque.

It’s odd
My hands are washed
I feel no guilt

Another Arrival

23 : 59

Sixty Seconds.

She watched,
An outline of sorts materializing into him.
He watched,
An outline of sorts materializing into her.

The line separating their dimensions evaporating.

00 : 00

’31st December’, his greeting was curt, almost stoic.
‘1st January’ she acknowledged, equally toneless.

But the hands that held, held a tension palpable.
Two pairs of eyes searched and looked away,
Eyes heavy with words never communicated,
Eyes, tired with long dried tears.

Sixty Seconds was all the time they’d ever get.

‘Sixty Seconds’ , came a murmur in unison.

Hands held tighter

And eyes locked.

Sixty Seconds.

00 : 01

‘until next time’, a disembodied whisper was all that carried over.

Sixty seconds later all was quiet.


Some would say 31st December moved forward for him,

Some would deduce 1st January moved behind for her.

Chauvinists, all, and none the wiser.

Only they know the truth,
they are transcendents who merge along the seams of time.
And those sixty seconds will forever hold that a secret.


Just a little something I posted during New Years. Its real fun, personifying time.

The Pianist

” You can only want one thing the most”

the words echoed, like a long forgotten dream, emphasizing it’s unsung significance.
And looking at him, waiting for her, she knew all of a sudden that he was the ‘one’ thing that she had always wanted.

The insistent bell signalled the end of the interval, interrupting her daydream and forcing her back into the fleeting present. Everything, every moment was spent in a welcomed state of numbness, for as long as she could remember, she dwelled in the past. Memories, scattered here and there, agonizing to put together, yet impossible to let go.
She seated herself at the grand piano, and remembered him to be ever so spontaneous with verses.

“Perfect tone of crafted sound:
Inner depth of rumbling bass
Agitates my heart to pound!
Noble middle-range’s grace secures
Ovation – fell the ground!”

A tentative hand touched the yellowed keys, and her gaze, of it’s own accord moved to the finger where a ring might have been. She had long since shunned regret and had faith in the choices she had made. It was her choice, she found herself reminding.
Then breaking away from her undirected train of thoughts she stole a quick glance at the mirror proffered by her lady in waiting.
Her deep hazel eyes were aglow with a melancholy of long lost euphoria.

The curtain lifted into a thunderous applause, she felt the familiar warmth coursing through her, tonight would be the octogenarian’s final piano concerto.

Unbeknownst to her, he sat in the eighth row, beside a Monsignor of Italy.
Tonight was Lady Fenworthy’s final act.
Gold Medallist of the prestigious Royal Philharmonic Society, member of the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra and a modern pioneer in alternative-classical instrumental.
But to him she was Melody, plain Melody, a melody more beautiful than the ones she spun out of her golden fingers, admired by many, appreciated by all.

As the first motes of her melody captivated the theatre into a stunned silence and the lights faded away, he leaned back into his seat, vaguely aware of the Monsignor complaining about the bad wine and clutching in his left palm two silver bands with Gaelic inscriptions.

Just in case.