Anxiety. It's a funny word. Three syllables, seven letters. How does this word even begin to describe the excruciating worry I feel at this very moment.

I'm fidgeting in my seat, trying to keep my mind occupied and off of the man next to me. He's tall, older. His hair is graying and he is going to be arrested once this plane touches down.

"Do you mind?" He leans forward, reaching for the light I nod, leaning back so he can click the button. A harsh yellow light lit up our row, shedding light on both him and my apparent nerves. "I'm Jeffrey, by the way. What are your plans in Florida?"

I hesitate, unsure of what to say, but then I smile and say, "I'm Candace, its very nice to meet you. I'm actually going home."

He nods before going back to the book in his hands. I look away, grateful he is no longer talking to me. I put in my headphones, letting my music drown out the sounds of the plane and close my eyes. Not that I'd be able to sleep. Epstein's leg was close to mine, his knee bumping my leg every couple minutes. I pull my legs towards the window, it's going to be a long five hours.

#jeffreyepstein #flight #plane #arrest #amatuerwriter #arrests

Months I have waited

To tell you what I always knew

Months I have waited

unsure of what to do

Months I have waited

To release what is true

Months I have waited

To say I love…

You, you are perfect

A light in the dark

Incredible, amazing,

Kind, and smart

When you’re here I smile

When you’re gone I cry

Can’t get you out of my mind

I wish you were mine

But you’re not

I dream one day

You’ll love me as I do you

I’m believing a lie

Longing for something that is never true

So I’ll stay quite

Hide my secrets away

Hope that you’ll buy it

This lie I say

Friends well stay

Acquaintances for life

God it hurts like a knife

You’re so close

Yet so far

It’s too hard…

I swallow my tears

Until the end

Stay as we are

We’ll stay as friends

Months fly by fast

Seasons pass

I look at life

Wonder if it was worth the pain

I take my last step

My last breath

Tick tick tick

The clock finally stops

My times up

Remember me as I was

My love

The world fades to darkness

I do what I’ve done best

I smile through the pain

Until we meet again

Lonely

Lonely, again

#romantic #amatuerpoetry #poetry

I read allowed the story I’ve just finished. My husband, in the chair across from where I sit, is tomato red, a clear sign I had done something correct, something incredibly indecent.

After the war ended, we settled into a rather unusual schedule. He would go to work while I stayed home. I tended to things as a good wife should but in the ample hours of spare time I had, I wrote.

Writing is an art- like painting, some stories are told in the nude. These were the stories I wrote and sold to the popular magazine press that was read all through Paris. This was all under a pen name of course, as lewd writing is not the proper occupation for a married woman. My husband, however, revels in the income I bring(a penny a word), and the private readings we have together.

”‘His hand, rough from laboring in the fields, slides gently under her skirt and along her thigh. she leans against him, one hand on the wall behind her, the other resting on his cheek. His free hand, the one not currently inching its way closer to her womanhood, began to unbutton her blouse.’ Darling, are you alright?” I stop reading, looking up at my husband who has become restless in his chair. His blush had traveled to his ears, though he tried his best to hide it.

“This isn’t just any story, is it?” he asks. “It seems more like a retelling.”

He is on to me. It was a retelling. Not of some famous erotica, or a novel I had read in the past summers, but of a night we had spent together weeks ago.

The night was just beginning, as I walk with my husband to the room I had picked for us. It was our anniversary. I unlock the door, leading him in, and to the bed.

He looks at me incredulously before saying, “You wrote this about our anniversary?” I nod. “And you plan on sending it to the magazine?”

“Only if I have your permission,” I say, walking over to him, and taking a seat on his lap.

“I’ll give you my permission, only if you keep reading.”

I giggle. I wasn’t sure how he would take this, whether he would be angry or just disappointed.

“Okay,” I nod, ”‘Slowley he unbuttons the shirt, exposing her ample breasts. he stares at her for a moment, taking in her beauty, before leading her to the bed.’”

I finish the story minutes later, with the characters falling asleep in each other’s arms. My husband looks at me intently. His lips meet mine we make our way to the bedroom, creating a new story, one that will find itself in next month’s magazine issue.