She left a piece of herself riverside.
A fragment of what she once was – nothing
significant, only a light shadow.
It hinted at romance and desire,
once worn on her sleeve, now buried beneath.

Wind chilled, her heart hung there, a remnant left
in tree limbs stripped bare of leaves. Sharp contrast
to autumn’s barren branches – yet the same –
each yearning for new life, to recolor
grey days spent in dreams – imagination.

Woken from self reflection, she feels life
inside, however dormant it appears.
Abandoned and re-found, she welcomes back
those pieces she thought were lost in the woods.

~ Siobhan


Standing in the Middle of the Room

Avoiding touchy-feely-painful parts,
concentration centers on physical.
We dance alongside our love, as always,
aiming to profess – confess undying
passion we rarely ever exhibit
anymore. When the mood strikes, thunder-clap
sex emerges lightning fast – rain washes
scents of it from our bodies, no longer
still entangled in sheet, panting passion,
murmuring words of wonder; we leave out
emotions standing pink-elephant-esque
in the middle of the room, not wanting
to spoil one second with reality
all our differences – money, family, friends.


Softer Than Her Own

She drew a line down the edge of his jaw,
fingers played with the wiry grey
covering his scarred chest; her palm rested
on his shoulder, her cheek pressed to hear his heart.

His flesh, warm beneath her touch, was softer
than her own. In fascination, she watched
arousal flush across his body; his
nipples hardened, his breath became shallow

and to her delight – a moan escaped lips
brushed with her kiss. Heady with such power
she allowed her hands to wander slowly,
explored every inch of him with her mouth.

This is what love tastes like, she thought, pausing
to savor the bitter and sweet of him.


Questions and Answers

Do you miss me? Not an easy question
to answer. Yes, in ways I had not thought
and no, in ways I thought I would miss you.

Can you still feel my presence in your bed?
Though scent of you has been washed from the sheets
you remain an impression beside me.

Does your body ache for mine – inside? out?
Skin soft to the touch, your touch just as soft;
longing and desire exist in me.

That is not an answer to my question –
This ache is longing – both pain and pleasure;
Longing for all the elements of love.

Love without trust; separated by time
and distance, real and imagined – that’s us.



She was in love – or lust – and quite naïve.
A twinge of pain – just a prick (so to speak)
and sharp pleasure brought him adoration.
With little preparation, he entered
her heart – took over her mind; fantasy
and fairytale-blind, she gave of herself,
an eager student ready to learn all
the delight his experienced years could teach.

Each caress was gentle, eliciting
shivers in the July heat. Innocence
lost in the backseat (along with her right
contact), a memory she would cherish
even as she mourned. The first love was once
found then lost, her lesson learned the hard way.


Pulling Strings

She can feel
each string-tug,
threads plucked
and worn
thin from time.

She chooses to ignore
– not wanting to experience –
that pain again.

The pressure suffocates;
its own version of CPR pushes
on her chest,
works in reverse, forces
the air from her lungs, emotions from her heart,
thoughts from her mind, disquieting.

At some point, she will be
able to listen
to the melody,
the lyrics,
the song entirely
without flinching, blinking
or crying.

At some point, the strings will
stop tugging,
stop twisting
in two

– and she will be able to breathe.



As Is

The smell of paint hasn’t faded; the pinch
of cleaners wrinkles the nose; still it’s not
bright enough, fresh or new enough. It is
as is and nothing more – or even less.

She rolls her shoulders, no hands nearby to
rub away the sore, ease out the tension
of holding a roller, repetitive
strokes, the covering of the old with bland
to create a canvas for someone else.

Her legs ache from standing atop ladders,
hard wooden floors, something she knows she will
pay for in the wee hours when the pain
wakens her from sleep and unfinished dreams.

The house remains – as is – and so does she.