in time

in between the spaces of breaths 

is where time lies. 

in unmoving motion 

flowing low in tides 

allowing air to float over. 

patient for the notice 

tucked away to tick 

without care for tomorrow. 

as, once the pockets 

that surround time’s palms, 

those bursts of breath, 


so too 

does time.

giving over

arms in welcome to surrender

chest open for the stretch of the heart

to extend into unknown

there is no control

so take me and let it rain

pouring the salt tonic

over her beating rhythm

in wait for “more testing”

to shrivel and shrink

while naked to the world

bringing every risk as possible

having walked this road

again and again and again

while the repeat is wearisome

and worrisome that the next time

will be “the time” I won’t walk away

with relief

I surrender

I know I am with love

whatever the results

your power

I’m not responsible for your actions


I have come to understand

no one

forces that hand

you made your own choice

as much as I would have

held your hand in the dark

until the light of morning came

to save you

from yourself

you had decided

and never reached for another hand

that night

I wish your isolation

wouldn’t have meant your desolation

or vice versa

but I know I couldn’t change it

no matter how long I held your hand

no matter how much I listened

someone else

can not change you

only you

have that power

and it’s a grand realization

liberating you

to be and do



I wish you would have known

to family and friends in the wake of suicide

you were only going through your

daily motions,

buttering toast,


when suddenly –

wham –

hearing those words

you drop the butter.


in one single action







how you feel

is yours.

it is right.

it is appropriate.

it is okay.


sad, angry, disappointed, relieved, enraged, annoyed, depressed, numb, rejected, dulled…


and you may feel

all of these (or none)

one by one

or all at once

over days

over months

over years.


they are yours to


or bury them for a minute

to be able to get

to tomorrow,

but do not

let anyone

tell you

it is wrong to feel

however you feel.


in the aftermath,

my skin raw

rubbed in chafe

barrier broken down

still more scrubbing

with gritty sandpaper

until I was red.


in the healing,

ready to grow new,

I could have

sprouted spikes

from my fingertips.

my pet

would leave similar


of my receipt.

or scraping spiny palms –

my touch of others

shredding souls –

special point in dislike.


I chose not.

instead allowing

those weeping wounds

to heal in fur,

soft merino mitten

to stroke those in meet,

even those disapproving,

a gentle hand of help.

in hope to ease

those inner melancholy melodies

to the sweet sound

of silence.


what skin last felt your hand

grazing tanned fingers

tiny hairs and smooth palm

touched in tenderness

maybe a millisecond of meeting?


who last breathed air

in your imaginary box

we don as personal space

entered by only a few

accepted to even less?


what words were the last

final phonic sound grabbed

by open ears

with what sentiment did the syllables

sing to your soul?


and may I remember

with each exhale and

every utterance or exchange

it could be their last.

I could be their final goodbye


to this world.