Like Ash

Depression makes everything pass through me. Or at least, everything that could give me even the remotest form of pleasure or comfort. Like I'm full of holes.

I Was There Too

N.'s artwork was beautiful. In the way a mausoleum is beautiful. Or a dark forest. Or an abandoned silo. Or even a ghost town. Otherworldly. Tragic. Magnetic. Haunting. Fascinating. Profound when pondered. ...Disturbing, as only death and neglect and long-accepted despair can be. N. was "other." Apart. And none of us dared go near him.

Strands of Keratin

Strands of keratin. They slide between my fingers and I think-- Where were we, Love, when this small space at the end of the lengths were new, emerging like buds of Spring from scalp and skin?