meloostraightfromhertilt-a-world

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Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

All Beings Considered

I Long For Stars

The Best Revenge (For All Your Critic's Critiques)

Your Next New Dying Black Swan



The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

All Too Clearly Now

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

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Sometimes In Losing I Have Gained A Lot

A Man Of The Clouds

The Birds Are Such Un-numbering Creatures of Distant Hitchcockian Past

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They Grew (A Poem From The Imaginarium)

Cuba Libre

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Max on the max

The Little Bird Said

The Factory of Resentments

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Expect Yourself

TONIGHT

I WILL RETURN

Silver-Tongued Devil

Within The Green Wind Becomes The Fall

Think On This--IF YOU WOULD

Open Lines

You Got Your Lilly Back

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Describe  9-17-2016/9:04 AM PST


what its like is
a hole
or
the lack of a place where
he, someone who was both
sacred/small
and once had been
of my life

someone who meant
something so huge
but, now no longer is

at times, not fully aware,
behind my reading glasses,
the ache inserts itself
like a phantom limb
tears fall
tattooing my face
with their etching cascade

everywhere I see
more holes
un-subtle reminders
a collection of absences
where once his small space filled me in

what happens now?
will my heart disappear?
where do I move on to?

left here
I'm somewhere
where, I don't really know

wondering
wandering
where did he go?
will I fall into his holes?

at the strike of
two a.m.
I often hear his tattered breathing
my right hand reaches out
for air

describe,
he instructs me,
as he chitters in my ear
in his invisible language,
write me out

and then I take up my pen
I write
until I crumple
into a worried sleep
and dream of
how he and I used to be.



Copyright September 17, 2016 All Legal Rights Are Reserved
By This Author for this WORK/ THIS SITE TITLE
Melissa A Howells/Meloo straight from her Tilt-a-World

blue menu with crows for G.





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