I remember you most on a black bench, fingers on the keys, trying to play as passionately as you wanted to be, as you were, for you held your wild heart uncertainly. You knew not how to hold it properly. But all I could hear was you banging too hard on the keys. Trying to … Continue reading Black Bench
I often wonder to the scrawny, passion-confused boy I left behind. The one who always fights with his music--banging on the keys because he's angry--angry at everything. I often wonder if he is still angry, but that is what makes me wary of him; forever wary of him. He was a knot of a person. … Continue reading The Passion Confused Boy
Mama, there is no easy path to ride into your Indian summers. Autumn is upon you now but you stoutly refuse to put on your coat or stop swimming in the ocean. Storms may come, but you insist you can mold any wave with your spirit that still sees itself riding mustangs in the desert, … Continue reading Mama, Autumn Comes
I forgot that honey makes me think of you. Your mother horded all her harvested honey in jars on the highest cuboard, though she had sworn a life of sugar, dairy, meat, and wheat celibacy. Honey was all she had left. Honey for another day. But you'd take down a jar, when you'd make me … Continue reading Honey
How is it a gift to be delicate and pleasing when the winds and storms of thine ungentle cares crush me, demanding, yet hating the coarse strength of bark and root? But should I fall, and indeed I may, I know I'll sprout to bloom again in thine sun; delicate, even if you blow me … Continue reading Flower Girl
Take me to the other side of your brain where you're actually honest, and mean to do what you say you'll do, rather than pretending to yourself it's the truth. Take me to the other side of that happy face to what you actually feel and think, whenever you promise and lie, side by side, … Continue reading Take Me to the Other Side
Each shrine of my art is dedicated to the muse which is you. And each rung of my dreams spools and hinges on your existence. I only started to breathe real air when you stood still to breathe next to me-- perhaps the first to just stand there doing nothing, saying nothing, but just there … Continue reading My Love
Sitting naked at my computer, thinking about you. How strange that so many fear what we have. They call it prison what has freed me more than childhood. A killer of love they call this, which makes me think of you as I sit here naked in front of the screen. Each inch of my … Continue reading Sitting Naked
You were right. You're heart only beats, and there's something miswired in your soul. Black as you were, and still are, I remember you. And scratching at the surface with my pen to understand I paint your picture. Every dark color and nasty need. The way you pounded on the ivory keys, fooled to think … Continue reading Paint You Away
"You do this all the time" he said, frustrated and I laughed. "Saying only half of your thought then stopping the rest from coming out. Don't you know how much that bothers me? I'm so curious..." "Why do you tease me?" He looked peeved, but I knew. "You mean one thing but seem to say … Continue reading Just Going Through the Phases
Author T.S. Lowe 