sould

Living in your own Skin
is the hardest thing to do when you don’t want to feel.. . little by little and piece by piece a puzzle and mourning a christmas i will never forget. a rude awakening, if you will and my wonder: Is this something by god- is this a god of senselessness or of humour? i was proud to be his girl; he wore me well i was the missing piece the puzzle, his prize and suprised. sometimes im lost without him; its my refusal to let go. because i dont have to; why let go of someone so–

beautiful ?

“all i want for christmas is to wake up with you,” i can still feel him tracing my tired nose.. i still feel him near me, his reverent whisper in the nape of my smile: “all i want for christmas is to wake up with you.” i woooed because im funny like that– because i loved him– and i turned head over heels into a passionate slumber; irony is when you cant wake the dead. and a sadness remains as i never thought to answer out loud. and tell me Who or Whom would or will ever think of one night and last christmas the same?

yes ive slept other nights and in rooms or alone
yes and through holidays and no one has died;

s e e ?

Yes. i know. believe me.

i dont talk about him much anymore. and it frightens me when i realize
how days have passed to years. i forgive those whos bliss is ignorance.

i dont understand why i was not be able to save a life-
a life that filled me with light. he restored my faith
in people

. . .

wtf is being human, its like we have a need to touch the sky
in taking a risk of openness, of loving, of sharing. of Giving.
of treasuring your own gift; in the love of your innermost self.

i can forgive those who dont know what to say
or what to do what to think or how to feel
wont stop me from thinking out loud–
and why Not keep him alive?

My soulmate died on Christmas morning, 2002.

there is healing power in the words of truth and it is
the Truth that sets you free; pain is the risk of becoming alive

and always in love;
its a circle of life, love.

its not my intent to be crass; its my story…not yours.
At the End of The Day dont tell me When to cry.
’tis my own season; a celebration
of Things that may never been.

or were.