because it's been a while

Dear Lover

You came and went, as if to further implicate that time was bending, swollen like a dream. Traces of you still linger in desk drawers. Fleeting scents tangled in threads, tugging back moments and blurring memories, drunken on my tears. Your exit dusted the silence, hushing the garden to stillness, soil soaking, waiting for the sun to kiss it to life. My thoughts slip to the orchard, young lovers kissing between the pomegranate and fig trees, branches breaking under the weight of fruit.


 I love eating the apples in my house because your fingers have touched them and whisper to my lips to be found. Kisses living vicariously through blushed skin and sweet flesh. 

Damn dem bones.

I started crying in the bathroom. Guests were supposed to eat first, and had I slipped off to relax my face, stiff from smiling and gritting teeth. Instead I leaned my forehead against the wall, shaking with anger and pain, eyes hot and tears stinging. The pain was so intense I could barely walk; all I want is wind, running wild with me. Save face, say grace, and get the fuck home. 

Every pump of my bike petals pushed me to bite my lip harder, fighting through the fog of sadness that stole my vision. Now I was crying with the spite of an agitated "fuck you". This can't be my body.

Everyone tells me to slow down. If I slow down any more I'm going to suffocate. 

And then I lost it. Finally home and collapsed on the couch, I sobbed like a wounded animal. 

I don't know what to do anymore except cry. 

I feel like something is trying to break my spirit, and I can't walk away. 

Today my eyes were tainted with bitterness, leaking dirty rotten pain. And still I'm sitting, sobbing in vain. But I don't know what else to do. Everything else is just a distraction.

I can't begin to explain.

In my memories

Your voice.

Soft, fleshy.

Far and close.

We are wanderers.

Searching.

Wreaking havoc chasing dreams.

bah

my secret summer project

Stockholm from Amber Crago on Vimeo.

silly me

Oh that calm was the eye of the storm! Silly me.

Two suicidal parents in one year is a record. And I thought I had problems.

My step mother is coming to live with me till she gets on her feet financially.

wait what?

lol

working in the garden

Winter is coming. Greens, kale, beets and radishes. Persimmons, fresh eggs, dried figs, and hopefully rabbit meat. Today we started turning the soil and building the frame for the new bed. Saw a black widow spider and caught her leg in a board. Power-sawed and tasted the smell of sawdust. The sound reminded me of my father.

Under a canopy of soft green leaves and warm sun, I wove between branches laden with figs, a breath away from glowing delicate blue. Stepping over old wood the ground was like burnt toast with thick jam on top, oozing between my toes and filling my nose with a whisper, "Indian summer." My shirt sagged under the weight of my forging, and my adopted figs called out to their fallen comrades, "nurture thy mother."

The tomatoes were swollen, bursting under the constraint of over-population. Jujubes dried on the tree and catnip glistened in the afternoon light. My sweat salted the earth where my food will grow.

Golden grapes were discovered growing above the chicken coop.

Overflowing, I am gratitude.

Everything keeps boiling down to this reoccurring moment where nothing else exists but me looking God in the eye and asking, "well what on Earth do I do now?" 

grinding teeth.

A big thumbs up to every.

 single. fucking.

 one. of. 

you.

Reminders of you in every corner...

I keep dreaming of my ex lover. Fading between glimpses of memories buried in images, scents that tug me to long for the warmth of safety. Companionship improperly mixed with forgiveness, wrapped in loving arms and sealed with a kiss.

The dust is settling and my bed is warm from wine.

Crusted on the edge of my mind is the fleeting reminder that I'm missing something. A sense of being, non-specific to anyone except perhaps myself. Take two and keep waking up in the morning, only it's still not working. Touching myself is becoming a cycle. Spiral motion spinning predictable, dradle drade dradle...orgasms escape me even in my solitude.

Maybe I'm tired of being alone. Confident as I stride, cravings for touch leave me sullen.

When sleep comes, all I'm shown is this world of love that exists outside of what I know. Here I stand, emotionally mutable but superficially untouchable...something's telling me I sold out but the audience is a no show.

I'm starting to realize that what I know isn't true anymore. Reminders of you in every corner keep slamming doors, and when one closes, this house just gets taller. Construction's expensive when your heart's locked in a tower. The new staircase is almost finished, waiting to be dusted by it's first foot print.

All I keep hearing is that god damn saxophone echoing through it all. Mental pictures of warnings predicted true. It's not that I want him back either. I just want to have something real.

Whatever that is.

roots

Today was cold and wet, wind pulsing to touch the back of my neck, chilling me with it's loving whispers to run wild together through the forest.

melatonin

 I've been here before.

Too distant to be distinct...

...somewhere in dreamland...

walking towards the growling dusk.

I've come to perfume the ocean

weaving cocoons.