I can count on you

 A ten foot pole can't interfere

from all nine lives with you my dear

You stand with me by eight foot walls

Seven days go by and no withdrawls

We checked the cons six ways to Sunday

Five fingers clasped down life's long highway

Burn through the boxes and their four sides

Three precious words will be our guides

Two people paired like butter and bread

One love, one heart, 'til we drop dead

spring

It's that time of year, where the trees are reaching for the sky with new leaves and buds. Little flowers opening up their petals like newborn babies first seeing the world. Purple, yellow, pink, white, and orange. Such variety for all the same purpose, why? Surely one color is best suited, one color the bees love the most. So why? Only one answer makes sense. The colors are for us to enjoy. The colors exist to bring pleasure to our eyes. In an otherwise drab world, with pale browns and muted grays covering so much of this Earth, color makes it bearable. The colors brighten up our senses. They bring cheer to our faces. They make every day just a little bit more manageable. So the next time you see a tulip or a pansy or even a dandelion, appreciate it and see if it doesn't bring a little smile to your lips.

Withdrawl

My mouth is parched to the brim and the lines of my tongue crack under the strain of being lost in the desert of your withdrawal. Great dunes of loneliness rise up around me, surrounding my vision, looming over me with pale soulless eyes. They bore into my brain, pressing, daring me even to breathe. "Lie down" they repeat over and over, "embrace the sand, it is your destiny.". The mantra drums in my head, it beats in my ears, and I scream out in anguish. The sound lands hollow against the emptiness of the void. No echo returns to me as the barren landscape absorbs my pain. I sit, too weary to stand. Too tired to care. The sun begins its passage into the nearest golden rise of earth. Rays splay across the ground, shadows dancing across the topography, undulating patterns of darkness like ink spilled upon the desk. What do I see in them, what does it mean? The sins of my past form in those shadowy shapes, brought to life as warmth escapes the area. A cold chill rises from the ground and I collapse into its fatal embrace, no more a burden upon the world.

On the tarmac

Who can know the thoughts of the bag handler? To and fro, her cart paces the tarmac like a lioness on the prowl. Her eyes dart between terminals, measuring the luggage with an appraising eye. That one! Pedal floored, the cart lurches forward, tearing across hard concrete towards gate A12. Desperate suitcases and duffel bags await their fate, adorned with identifying trivialities of twisted ribbons, funny buttons, and scribbled tags. They huddle together, shivering in the brisk air, wondering what lies in store. Despite all her training, the sheer magnitude of the travel containers stacked up takes her breath away. Seemingly reaching to the sky, the dozens of bags are stacked in perfect alignment. The arrangement speaks so strongly, to even flabbergast an untrained passerby. Yet she is alone in this world, unable to share her awe with anyone, a solitary dot splayed upon this vast concrete wasteland.