I feel hollow today.

It’s nagging and gnawing

Digging up

And turning over

Years of debris

An excavation

Nostalgic loss so bittersweet,

I can taste it on my tongue

Filling my mouth

And flooding my eyes

With feelings

So raw

They strike a nerve

Igniting memories.

Those initial moments.

The first few days

After giving birth

My belly emptied

It’s precious cargo

In my arms

A life

So deeply wound within my own

A life

So profoundly separate from yours

I cut the cord

Fraying ends

Between

Two precarious edges

Sharp and bright steel

Pressing

Until they converge

The impact of this gesture

Stunning in it’s release

Tying you off

As I wait

For the aftermath

Of your birth

Threadbare and frayed

A life.

To be delivered.

~N.E. Philomèle~ ©️2020

I felt his presence in his absence but I could not feel his essense in his presence and when I realized this, I knew it wasn’t love.

(or maybe it wasn’t him)

My friends and I were cruising Grand that night like we predictably did every Friday night. Gone were the days we hung out at the mall, looking for boys and trouble, we had wheels now and life was so much more exciting for us.

It’s funny because when I try to share my teenage years with my son he can’t fathom why we enjoyed driving around in circles for hours at a time. I don’t think he will ever truly understand the magic of finding people through happenstance and not through the virtual world. It’s beyond his reasoning and thinking. He’s been brought up as generation Z, a generation of cyber babies. I wouldn’t expect him to get it. But I did. And I loved sharing with him long drawn out, eye roll worthy stories.

One story I hadn’t shared with him though was the night I lost my virginity at the mere age of 17 years old. I am not even sure if I will ever tell him about it to be honest.

It was a typical cold December weekend. I believe it was the weekend before Christmas in fact. My friends and I were jamming out to Motley Crue, head banging no less, when we heard a guy in a lifted bronco yelling for us to pull over. His lit Marlboro red pursed between sexy lips, pointing towards the Denny’s Parking lot. We circled around and found him sitting on his hood, eagerly waiting for us to come to him. He was everything you would imagine a bad boy to be. He had that slightly dangerous appeal that drove most girls wild. Especially me. My father had taught me to stay away from those heathens. And of course I wanted to do nothing more than rebel at his authority.

His name was charro. He looked like a cross between Billy Idol and Vince Neil. He didn’t even have to speak. He could have spoke a foreign tongue. I didn’t care. I didn’t even know what I wanted exactly from him. But I knew there was something about him I had to have. He motioned for me to come towards him, never letting go of his smoke in hand. He wore an unforgettable chain sleeveless shirt. I had never even seen anything like that before around my neck of neck of the woods. I asked him where he was from and he told me he had just moved here with his Latino girlfriend from San Diego. I had never been to California. I had only seen it in the movies. I was even more intrigued. And I certainly didn’t care if he had a girlfriend. I was naive and believed once he got his hands on me she would be history anyways. I mean after all. I was told more often than not that I looked like the girl from the Aerosmith videos. And that was definitely not a bad thing. She was hot or so I thought.

I can’t believe how crazy I was back in the day. I had no filter for my sailor infused mouth and I was in fact a relentless spirit that felt immortal at times as did my crazy friends. We were all a force to be reckoned with. I don’t know how I made it through some of the things I did and somehow managed to make it out alive. He was the most dangerous man in our little town and I was about to take him in like a shot of Jager. I lit my smoke up, a camel wide, and entered into what looked more like a garage then an actual house. He had little strings of lights hanging from the falling ceiling, drips of water made clunking sounds with each penetration into the buckets through out the room. A lamp lit up with a green bulb sat on his makeshift night stand ( a collection of shoes boxes stacked up on top of one another). His room with the green hue, little lights and Harley parked in the corner. I wasn’t crazy about the Goliath sized iguana sitting at the end of his twin mattress. I wasn’t sure how his steroid cut 6 ft body even fit on the thing but I couldn’t wait to find out.

He lead me to his bed without even asking me my name. I knew his though, he didn’t hesitate to tell me as he grabbed my hand with a forced grip. He was quite aggressive. Again. I didn’t mind. I knew that there would be a high possibility of that as soon as he grabbed the back of my neck and kissed me ever so passionately. I had been kissed many times by boys in the past. But never a man in chains. He pressed his heavy body against mine. I started to feel the affects of the alcohol kicking in over time and felt the room spin. I wasn’t used to Jager. I was more of a Boone’s girl but that night I felt like being a bad girl.

He was speaking to me in a language I wasn’t familiar with. It wasn’t Spanish. It wasn’t French. I had taken both of those in High School. This was seemingly unfamiliar. But honestly the thunderous roar of Metallica blasting through the speakers above his bed kept me from hearing my own screams. It was the cocktail of green lights, Metallica, ripped sheets and blood coming from my area that had my heart racing and my mouth looking for a way out as I began to salivate with great eminently, searching for the closest bathroom. No bathroom was anywhere to be found.

And It was over. Just like that. I had lost my virginity to a named Charro and his green iguana. And managed to keep from puking to save myself from humiliation.

The bad boy wound up being quite the gentlemen and offered to take me home. I took him up on the offer of course without hesitation, sneaking in at the stoke of a half. past midnight. He and I both saved one another’s phone numbers in our Motorola’s. And we did meet up a few more times later. He never did leave his Latin lover. They actually got engaged and I was a distant memory. I think they had a baby together. I supposed I will never know really. All I know is that Charro would always be my first and was the catalyst of many bad boys to follow.

Shreds of paper overstuffed into a David’s Supermarket bag-somehow made their way into peculiar places lately. One piece was wedged between one of my Pottery Barn pillows and an awe inspiring novel that I had reread at least 6 times in the last month for motivation and heartwarming sentiments.

I missed the bed I had shared with my late husband. His side untouched and richly submerged in Creed cologne. I refused to wash the scent out. So the sheets remained untouched despite their need to be laundered. I rose up so often in the middle of night that it became the norm. Time and time again I found myself reaching out for his muscular fit body, he had been my protector. I felt safe once. I longed for his rugged hands to hold me once more. I begged and wept into tear stained sheets til dusk more often times than not. I would almost suffocate taking in remnants of his leftover intoxicating aroma. Sadly, I woke up disappointed every single day, another reminder of his absence. He was in fact gone and would always be, at least in the physical form.

I’m not sure how our scattered memories waltzed their way into our bed room. Alone. But the yellow fragmented lined pieces of our story didn’t discriminate. They landed within the breezeways of fate. And meandered into cracks of splendor through out our walls and beyond. If only they could talk. If only. They would express a myriad of almost toxic doses of love, magic and euphoria. Endless nights of cognac drops of heaven and sweaty palms. Deep thoughts expressed through laced fingers and breathless moments. Moon light seeping through blue velvet. Our shadows embraced in seductive poses on a blank canvas. They would forever remain tucked away deep inside my broken heart. And life somehow would have to go on without him. Even when I didn’t feel like living anymore. He would whisper into my ear, that I was not alone, and that Jackson needed me. Our son.

I picked up a dusty gold framed 8 x10 off of our dresser. All of us so happy. We were wearing crisp white button down shirts and matching Dark washed denim. Our annual fall photo. This has been the best one yet. Kramer has just gotten a promotion and our son Jackson had just entered into kindergarten. I was expecting and revealing a small bump of about 4 months. To say we were ecstatic was an understatement. We had discussed adding on to our family a multitude of times. And had finally made that dream come a reality. I had never seen Kramer happier.

I brought the photo to my chest and could feel the warmth of a tear drop work it’s way down to my freshly red painted lips. I pressed them together and wiped my eye, careful to not smudge my mascara. I had to go. I had to leave our haven behind for a while. I had a trip planned over seas to see our son and our new grand baby. And Alexa, our daughter had planned to be there as well. I couldn’t wait to see all of them.

It was knowing that my little family needed me that kept me going strong and the presence of Kramer was all around us. In all facets of our lives. He was always sneaking up at the most inconspicuous places and reminding me all too often that he was a spirit inside of us all. And that’s what inspired me day after day to go on. And it was also the reason I opened a restaurant in his name. It had been a dream of ours and I used our savings to finally bring it into fruition. Our little Italian bistro tucked inside a strip of high end boutiques in the coveted down town of our ever expanding city. Our restaurant was on trend and had been voted best bistro every year since it’s grand opening.

Our life together left a legacy behind and I planned to keep it going. One piece of yellow at a time. Until there was no more left of me or us. One day we would meet again in another life. But until that day Kramer would live on through out so many of our lives.

She was beautiful, but not like those girls in the magazines. She was beautiful for the way she thought. She was beautiful for the sparkle in her eyes when she talked about something she loved. She was beautiful for her ability to make other people smile, even if she was sad. No, she wasn't beautiful for something as temporary as her looks. She was beautiful, deep down to her soul."

I love this quote because attractivness bares so deeply from the innermost part of your being. Its simply an echo of your heart and it gleams throught the oasis of your eyes, touch, vibrations and so much more than just the exterior that one sees at first glance.

Against contrary belief, I am not made of beautiful whispers that slip from your lips

My words will hold no meaning

And I will not pretend that my eyes radiate love or my hands are warm and soft

A place you find comforting will not be hosted by my being.

I analyze

I read

And it terrifies you

My tongue is sharp and painful

Wrecking havoc in your subconscience

I am a plague not meant for the ones with soul

For I am the mistress, the insane, and the poet.

I ALWAYS feel like I'm just this side of “getting it.”

What “IT” exactly is that I'm supposed to be “getting” is where I ALWAYS seem to “get lost.”

“IT” however,

seems to be quite the “Master of Elusian.”

“IT” leaves me to tread deep water,

G

A

S

P

I

N

G ...

in a “sea of ambiguity,”

alone and desperate.

Hoping someone,

(maybe even YOU)

will “come by” to show me what EXACTLY

“IT” is that I'm missing.

So I can take a break …

So I don't drown.

(most likely from exhaustion)

And die.

(Jesus Christ! I really am neurotic)

Also

Known

As …

“the girl who never quite “got it.”

But boy, you really had to admire her spirit. I couldn't handle “IT.” Some of the shit she went through ... “

followed by downcast eyes paired with “the inevitable sigh.”

The long pause ...

Casting them,

OVER

A cynical shadow they can't avoid.

(Is “IT” too dramatic?)

“IT” never broke her though.”

(I want to roll my eyes, only I can't, because “IT's” OVER)

Another long pause …

Downcast eyes.

THE “inevitable sigh.”

No one knows what to say.

No one ever did.

Because what the hell EXACTLY does one say to all of that?

(I want to laugh. “IT” is ALL, so terribly ridiculous)

And they stifle their chuckles momentarily because after-all,

(“IT” is what you do”)

at somber occasions before someone catches on

(I like to imagine “IT” is YOU)

and can no longer contain themselves because “IT” really was ALL so very ridiculous.

Because …

“IT” was the inevitable.

And YOU “know” I would be laughing at “IT” too.

(IF I was there)

And “IT” is O.K.

The mere fact that you're all “TRYING”

To keep your composure

Discussing MY life

Surrounded by ostentatious quotations,

when YOU know “good, God damned well” that I would hate to see YOU cry.

So YOU laugh

Your brawny laughter

(Surrounding me in “quotations”)

With that smile of yours

I “just adore” because ...

(I loved YOU)

“IT” has to be enough

(for us both)

Before that bullying, cynical pause resurfaces.

“And MAN, she could tell a tale …

That laugh.

And then there was that smile … ”

(Too bad YOU never saw “IT.”)

~ N.E. Philomèle ~ ©️2020 & ©️2019

Hey everyone.

I just received some shocking and saddening news today. We lost one of our own. Tony Cavanagh (otherwise known as MilesNowhere on Prose), a great writer, a good friend, one of the pioneers that helped make Prose the strong community that it is today, has sadly passed away back in December. I just found out about this from a Facebook post that his wife Ashley, whom I’m friends with. She just announced this today.

I probably don’t have a right sharing this with everyone here, but I know that some of us—those that have been on this site the longest—knew him and were good friends with him and his wife, and I felt it was necessary to keep you in the loop. And I wanted to express how it truly hurts to lose a friend.

Tony, like I said, was definitely one of those people on Prose that helped make Prose the community that it is. He was kind and encouraging. And he was always funny and creative. The stuff that he would write could always bring a smile to your face or a tear in your eye. That just shows the true talent he had that he was willing to share it with everyone here.

Sometime between 2017 and 2018 he left Prose, along with several other of our family. I didn’t blame him when he did. My only regret is not having left with him and all the others when I could have. I became friends with him and his wife through Facebook, where he continued to write and bring a smile to everyone both friend and stranger. He helped form PoetsIN, a Facebook group where those with a passion for writing can thrive.

I’m deeply saddened by his passing. We didn’t just lose a friend. We lost a family member. While he may have left Prose, his passion, his kindness, his friendship, his legacy, is still here with us. We may have known him through a computer screen, but it feels like we’ve known him for a lifetime.

I’ll conclude with these words, as my farewell to my friend through writing and the web:

Tony, wherever you may be, I hope you are resting peacefully. From your family still here on Prose, we love you, and we’ll miss you.

And to Ashley, my dear friend:

We’re deeply sorry for your loss. Our hearts go out to you and your family. We’re here for you. We love you.

“In this life. Beyond the mundane of watching empires of thought rise, only to crumble - I found real love without any desire to search for it. So I guess I have that going for me.”

Rest in Peace, Tony.

I want to know her

Every single thing

And I want to be known by her

Because she’s beautiful

And there’s this light inside of her but it’s so deep because there are layers of other things too

Somehow, the light sneaks through anyway

And I love that

She’s an open book and a mystery

Her androgyny intrigues me

Like...what sort of gender is this?

I love it

She surprises me constantly with her thoughts and her humor and her observations and responses

And she makes me want to be better Her courage to search for meaning makes me search too and pushes me to see myself

I don’t know if she loves me like I love her or if she ever will...but somehow, it doesn’t feel like pain

It feels like a privilege to love her