It’s Not This Time Of Year Without


Sorrow. And pain. With the constant dull ache of missing you.

Right next to me at the table is where you belong, flash back seven years and there you sat at the table next to me, finishing my jokes and singing in an octave so low that grown men would feel inferior in your quake. Though, your exterior was soft and weak, just as your heart when it held me, and I you.

I miss you sorely, like the sun misses the mountains for rising, in the darkest days of the Northern lands.

I miss you in my hands, feet and eyes. Eyes no longer get to see, hands no longer get to touch and feet no longer can run. Order is lost and chaos ensues, though not the chaos I had become so accustom to.

I am drenched in ache. Though some ache cannot be felt on a physical level, merely a mental one, which no longer surprises me when it can no longer imitate joy.

I long forgot joy. Buried it deep in the yard next to your ashes which will no longer dance with life but stifle with the never lasting moon and tides.

This life is not mine own, but one given to me by the Reaper in absence of your charm and grace, but more truly, in absence of your body. Your inner core.

I know I am no good without you, and a constant reminder is held in your honor every waking moment of this infernal life of mine.

What is it I miss this holiday season? Why, it’s what every crying-ageless mother has been missing, what every lonely heart and damned-soul needs. I am missing what is given naturally to each babe born, I am missing unconditional love of a family indeed.



Remember when
It was all a test
How far could you push
Before I started to pull
You got pretty far
I must admit
I let you into my space
But worse
I let you into my air
Where you took that clean space
And made it your home
For a few months
When you found
The air was too giving
You simply left
Now I have nothing
I am dying like a flame
Held too long under your care
You had me at hello
And you couldn’t stop there
My inside is bleak
My conscience is bare