TotaArn

Sunday's cat is quiet, staring at the cemetery watching summer dying. Soft paws break the autumn leaves, her tail breaks the cold sunlight and it's October.

Tug at the strings of her heart One by one let them dance in her chest To the rhythm of strangers who won't let her rest Tug at the strings of her heart

Blurry is how I see you now behind a veil of fading memories and rainy weather. How easily promises are abandoned, sweet whispers no longer words, but reminders of lost want. An expired guarantee of us. Blurry is how I see you now, as I trace our footsteps down that one street, lean on those doors, stand still for a minute and remember.

How quickly promises are abandoned sweet whispers so certain then. Now blurry memories of a reality that almost was. Your words so repeated they're meaningless, sweet nothings of never after in my ear. Number eight always the best and the worst.

Look! She said, pointing A river! Red nail polish shaking He turned No. Oh, silly me She whispered And wiped the river into her palm

So she asked Winter to hide her cause there are no shadows in the summer

With bright red nails and one hand on the wheel she can drive to wherever but her courage is in the left back pocket of her favorite pants a thousand miles behind

I want a lot of things and more of everything I want what I already have and more of what's there I want all there is and what's not there I want materials and possessions and things I can hold I want what I'll never get and all I can have But really all I want is the want from you

His tail wasn't still that morning it was going full speed as usual Just after dawn I sat down tried to hold him for a little while but he didn't know To him, this dawn was like any other; I would come right back, mess with his ears, kiss his nose, and drive to the park. But I betrayed his day and as I sit here I wonder; does he know I have nothing but the littlest of words? A "sorry" for comfort and his tail in my heart

One is a farmer. Or rancher. To me it's the same. His boots are dirty and worn. Over a layer of dry mud is a fresh blanket of wet dirt. His feet are patient, both on the ground and still. A patient patient. I wonder if that miserable play on words has crossed his mind. I wonder if he even knows that he's patient. Or is is just in my head? After all, I only see his feet, he could be biting his lip. Next to him is a pair of heels. Not so high that they are uncomfortable, but high enough to be a little painful on a long walk. The heels are crossed, and the one on top is moving. Funny how it's like that sometimes. Moving back and forth, up and d