Broken Pattern

Bet it Abbey, or Allison, or even willow tree
No matter what your name is, you’ll still be you to me

And even if i cannot now
or ever call you my own, my own
Know that in your emerald eyes
your true beauty’s always shown

Either riding in september, or october, or november,
there’ll never be a trip that over others ill remember

Instead it is the voids in time that rest to plague me everyday
to know had things worked out as planned that in my arms today you’d lay

But to you, as you, i may hold nothing
the mistakes belong to me alone
Today i need not look behind me
to see that you have truly gone

Title: My Green Eyed Lady

I awake and fall asleep the same
being teased by thoughts of you
Though other beauts walk by and by
    Your image haunts me true

Yes I know that you’ve been busy
these past weeks that number two
But to hold you in my arms again
There’s little that I wouldn’t do

Yet still my fear remains the same;
When I return nothing’ll’ve changed
To be with you will cause much pain
    and that I cannot face again

And so I hope one single thing;
That kiss did linger in your mind
You’ve made a choice since I’ve been gone
That ends with us: two of a kind

Title: Strawberry Daiquiris

I could sit with you and talk to you
For hours and hours on end
I could laugh with you till the sun comes up
Then do it all over again

I could write about you for days and weeks
about the things you make me feel
I could hold you tight for every night
but that doesn’t mean it’s real

Does he sit with you? Does he laugh with you?
Does he do the things I do?
Does he think of you the way I do?
Does he care this much for you?

I know what’s done is said an done
that much’s always been true
But to be with you when you’re not mine?
No longer can I do.

Title: I could, I could, I could

She always talked to the dog, though personally I cannot blame her. After all, he was the only one who listened to her. Not that he actually understood what she said, but at least he would keep her company, if not sitting next to her then laying on the rug in the adjacent room. And so the women passed her time chatting away with the canine.

    She told him everything about her. Their relationship had started several years prior, back when she was married to Lord Dunavon. The two of them bought the dog together during the latter half of their time together; before things got sour between the two and he walked out on her, leaving her nothing but the dog. She used to spend hours talking to the dog about where and how things went wrong but grew tired of it after a few weeks. “Why bother sharing the grievances of my life with such an innocent animal,” she often thought.

    Ms. Mayward didn’t like to dwell on the negative, nor be informed of it unless she had to. She would attend the funerals of her family and friends without argument, but she’d rarely stay past her dues, often being amongst the first to leave. She also gave up on reading the dailies. Here too she was often overwhelmed with stories of kidnapped children, premature deaths, and young soldiers dying in trivial wars. No, talking to the dog was a much better way to pass the time.

    While she crocheted the dog often sat by her side. It was the one thing she did that he seemed to take a partial interest in. Whatever it was, the dog would often follow Ms. Mayward’s hands loop after loop. In fact, he barked every time she made a mistake, which was rare having crocheted for many years now. It was during these times where Ms. Mayward felt intimate with the dog. She would talk about herself, her past aspirations, where in life she went wrong, and what she wished she could have done.

    One of the main things she talked about was children. Ms. Maynard never had children, and it dawned on her now more than ever, when she saw the grand-children of her friends at their funerals. She understood that she was the end of her line. All she had to live for was herself, and her dog. She smiled at the simplicity.

    She walked into the kitchen to check on the chicken. Ms. Maynard still took pleasure in cooking, even if it was only for herself. Of course she’d give the dog scraps every now and then, but made sure not to give him too much lest she spoil him. She checked the timer. It would still be another twenty minutes before the poultry would be finished cooking. Still, she reached inside with the effort of her entire body, old, wrinkled, and used, never to come out again.