coyote scar pilled

You say you are hurt, weakened, limping. And for a moment there, I saw it. I cared, I mended, every time you fell without fail. With or without hesitation I would take your sprained ankle with careful delicacy, bind it, hold you, Wipe the tears from your face and the blood from your scraped knees.

Once I had kissed it better, I'd ask how your trip was, and why I didn't receive a post card, or a letter. Your ribs, they'd tighten, your eyes would lighten, as your lungs sang aloud laughter. My worries would quell, and I'd grin as well, Chests now warmed with the love I'd always been after. You once said the same, reciprocated, that loving me was new, but easy, and so very far from complicated.

That was, until, something behind you called to my focus, Light reflects off of the chain tethered to your ankle, The other end tied, knotted, and bolted to a dead-weight.

Yet I wait.

I let you fall, and I fulfil our practiced routine, known all too well. You spin tale after tale, tripping over rocks and pebbles, say you were skipping and lost your balance is all, that you were simply so tired you had a stumble, It was then that I'd recall, The times we were enthralled, holding one another so closely I could smell your perfume, The pot you said you'd quit, I could hear the blood colouring your veins, And I could see the necklace you proudly wear and wore; a key, dangling, in the dip of the metal string. It looks like it may fit a locket, a jewellery box or, maybe, a closet door, Until I see it. The padlock to your chain, taunting me, jangling with every collision to the floor.

The question tumbles from my head and out of my mouth. I solve the predicament, yet you insist the issue is permanent. Now, each time you fall, you drag me down with you. But I care, I mend, every time we fell, without fail; Without hesitation you concoct your story, Never once asking about the scratches on my palms or knees.

Go on with your plots, storyboards and tangents, Ignore the escape draped from your neck - the key - shimmering like a bejewelled amulet. Lie to my face, time and time again, Pull me to the ground with you, beg for my kindness, But turn a blind eye when I need yours Like you don't ever want this to end.

So fall, weep. Weep to the story you build and choose, I know, now, it is not my purpose to save you. Not that you have ever wanted to be saved. For what are you without that mentality? The mindset of being vulnerable, helpless, that every effect couldn't possibly have a cause, And God forbid that shunned, white lie, unspoken cause be remotely related to a fault of yours.

Theres a lady on the bus

She always gets on a stop or two after myself

She dresses herself in spectacular outfits

a beret perched on her head,

and a colourful knitted scarf that I cant help but wonder if she knitted herself.

I know not her story,

The adversities she may have faced,

Nor the happiest day of her life,

I know not why the lady keeps her hair short,

but what I do know, I know in abundance.

The lady occupies her time on the ride without music, without a screen,

Always wrapping and weaving cotton to create crochet flowers,

or reading from a book,

Sometimes she reads from a few flimsy sheets of paper, i like to think that she is an actress practicing her lines.

Every now and then, she will adjust her rectangle framed glasses,

and push one of the stray white curls from her forehead.

We always seem to end up on the same bus,

No matter which way we intend to go.

When im on my way to the city, or on my way home,

My mind wanders to where she might go,