Sun-bleached lime coats the west wall,
a soft cream ceiling above,
holding my dreams,
of her;
of my love.
Prozac and Ambien dance a cruel waltz,
halting the drums in my chest,
allowing me to run away
from the badgers
in my mind.
Goodnight.
Metallic eye in the sky,
with mutating shimmers,
reflects from a nearby,
dark, cold,
windowpane;
its stern pupil,
watching always.
Doctors tell tales of solutions,
providing biased comfort
A cushion, maybe,
that turns to stone
when they are gone.
A beautiful woman curses in my presence.
I offer her my lunch.
A smile curls her sunken face;
brightens it, even.
I tell her to stay...
Strong?
Smiling?
I gasp for a happy ending.
She finishes my lost sentence.
“Able,”
she says as her eyes fade.
“Able.”
The door slams shut.
Back into the stream
to try again.
Optimism gathers up hopes,
as the outside world
—blindingly, I must say—
busily reminds me
of its vigor.
Hello again.
We meet anew,
my elusive "Able."
Next time will be different.
Next time, I will be strong.
As I aimlessly stroll
these Santa Rosa sidewalks,
sluggish tears streak my face,
and as it falls towards its fate,
it screams desperately,
promising,
a morrow vacant of sorrow.
Wish me luck.
Wish us luck
as we continue
to strive,
to be,
Able.
