Song in C Minor (no chorus)



Evening fades from burnt orange to purple-blue.

Cup of fragrant tea cooling on the ledge.

Porch swing sway and your feet pressed flat into new,

weather-treated wood. Neighborhood houses sigh,

breathing secrets into the coming darkness.


Spurred by twilight, across and up from you,

a girl, her nightshirt pressed pristine and laced, stealthily

parts upstairs curtains, peers out at a nighttime

world she envies, cannot fully understand, yet craves.

It covers her face. You sigh a knowing sigh,


give a crooked smile. He often waited, hidden

in bushes across the street, heart pounding

with anticipation for you to wave from your attic

room. The taste of your kisses still swelling his lips.

You touch yours now.



He sleeps. His sky unchanged after decades. Still winter blue, littered with clouds, stringing themselves westward, following the day. Fleeing the oncoming moon that rises unchecked and unafraid over mountains, launching higher, rejecting, reflecting light. His dreams left unrestrained uncoil and dance themselves sick across white walls, unframed paintings. They are screams. They are tattered fingers. They are memory.



In the corner are the presents. Years of dust collected

on wrapping paper. Birthdays, Christmas, all the just

because moments. She never opens them, just stacks

one on top of the other. Brightly colored, pretty

piles. “That might be the most condescending thing

you have ever said to me,” Which it isn’t.


Words pour into her throat like rain pours

into shoes. “You do not even know yourself,”

She says to an empty room. “All this self deception,

it becomes you, dictates and limits,” while she sees

the evidence reflected in everything, in everyone.



I am not bored with you.



You have spoken to the shadows.

Felt their tendrils climb up and over

your legs, past the spot where his beard

rubbed against your inner thigh, (the weight

of him) soothing and comforting the rawness,

they cleanse you. Still, you cannot trust

when they speak for they must deceive.

It is their nature as shadows.

They can only allude.


The pillow is so cool beneath your freshly

shaved skin. You lay back, eyes to the

ceilings intricate pattern that you have

memorized. Hour after hour here

in this four poster bed, sharp metal edges

and a sheer canopy to hide you from

the devils you invent, all green and red

with callous yellow eyes.


All our monsters taste the same when we

rip them with our teeth.


But you are loved and most of the time

that is enough to let you let go.

Though there are moments when in spite

of yourself, you wish you could just say no


and mean it.

About fenster

There are some who call me, Tim?

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