Now, I lay me down to sleep

In this dark, dreary December

If you awake and I am gone

What would you remember?

The way I laugh at little jokes

or how I drink my tea

The way I do the little things

Would you remember me?

If I had passed on in the night

would you think of how I looked

at ball games and at puppy dogs

and of all the things I cooked

My scent, would things remind you

of how I sometimes smelled

would you think of things I ******* up

and of all the times I yelled

If you awoke one morning

and found I'm not to be

what would you remember?

would you remember me?

If things did happen backwards

and I woke and you weren't there

I'd miss the way you smiled

The perfume of your hair

the ways your eyes did twinkle

when you had a special thought

of doing something naughty

of somewhow being caught

I'd remember things about you

of glances in the night

of how we worked together

of how we fit just right

I know that I'd remember

these things and more, you'd see

but I know, that I'd remember

But would you remember me?

Charcoal grey lines of your lashes
Fill my vision as laughter expands like bubbles beneath my
Ribcage.
liquid happiness curls down the vains lining your arms as you pluck
my heart strings one by one with familiar palms
Familiar fingers covered in charcoal.
The dust of longing clinging to our frames
as we curl in eachothers warmth
hidden beneath the silky darkness of the distant sky
stars which laugh distantly at our foolish words.
words that fall as charcoal does
soft, light, all consuming in its subtly
coating the whispered phrases in a filmy darkness.
Even as our hearts beat and our breaths become one it is
somewhow perfectly dissonant in its innocence.
I am not innocent.
The draw you hold on my body is unshakable
unspeakable in its strength  and for years the faded pictures have wrinkled
have crumbled gently at the edges
soft strokes of light dust marring the surface
but it is still beautiful
you are still beautiful.
Black as charcoal
the love I feel for you
stains my heart.
And I have found years later
lovers later
I cannot let you go.

will i ever love again
a question on my mind
will i ever love another
like you in this life

if it was meant to be it'll happen
this is what i am told
but i fear i won't find another
and will die alone

will i ever love again
i really miss you now
will i ever love again
thinking about it just brings me down

i wake up at night
with sweat in my eyes
my heart starts pounding
and i begin to cry

well it's better to have loved
and i still have my memories
they'll always make me happy
and set my heart at ease

at night as i lay down to rest
somewhow i find myself
thinking of me lying on your chest

I wonder
In which
The world we live
In all the countries
of all the people
And I some how happen
to have met you
I somehow happen
To have fallen in love with you
I somewhow happen
to have lost you
And with you
Follows half of my heart.
my heart
In all its emptiness
Still misses you.
I wish to be happy
to put on a face and deal
But with out you
my heart only has
so much time to heal

The dirt road in back of my house was
a short cut to Wianno Ave, our "main street',
where I would go to school, the movies,
or to my friends' houses to play. I rarely met
anyone walking along that path, so I could
pick blueberries and blackberries
wherecer I found them .

Near the end was a lovely stucco house
surrounded by tall, shapely everygreens.
I often stopped by the patch of
lillies of the valley edging the property
to catch a glimpse of the French lady
who lieed there with her maid.

How did I know she was French and
why did I want to see her again?
Everyone knew her naationality,
but the rest was a mystery.
All I knewwas she was the most elegant, stylish
and gentile woman I had ever encountered.
in my small, provintial Cape Cod village.

Me? I was a bit ruogh and tumble,
a tomboy I guess. Not particularly pretty,
with thick glasses and bowl-cut hair, so I kept the
visits to myself to avoid the usual mockery.
But somewhow, I knew that she was 'who' I
wanted to become, no matter how far fetched.

A hundred or so years later, she is still
the prototype for my 'finished product'
(me). Still with some rough edges,
but fluent in French, with a flair for
creative dressing and a passion for the arts.

Now I'm 100% Irish, but somehere in that
rich and colorful gene pool of Europe
and the Gaelic Isles, I snagged a memory
of a French lady. Or perhaps she snagged me?

Either way, it tells me that family history
country of origin and race may not have the finsl
say in the creation of an individual.
What a wonderful mystery that is!