A terrible idea.

We’re both so lonely. 
We’re both so lovely. 
We’re both missing something
We’re both seeking validation. 
That he matters. 
That I am still beautiful. 

We’re both nervous. 
We’re both suppressing the tremble.
We’re both unsure of why we’re there.
We’re both looking for something more.
That he can rule the world with his bountiful dollars. 
That I can make it on my own with only a dime in my pocket. 

We’re both someone that we used to love. 
We’re both each other’s first passionate flame.
We’re both chose opposite paths.
We’re both looking for a new route.
That he won’t be held by expectations. 
That I can live up to my expectations. 

We’re both there for a reason. 
We’re both enjoying the time. 
We’re both full of regret. 
We’re both trying to feel fine. 
That he needed a conversation with his biggest cheerleader.
That she needed to be wanted. 

Dance against my skin

It’s beautiful.  The air is a soft caress against my skin.  The milky way is exposed.  The view light from a far vessel lighting the hope. 

Beached.  I feel the fear of not disembarking.  Beached.  I feel the fear of disembarking.

It’s safe and reasonable upon the shore. A great job with flexible living.  A beautiful cottage 1/4 beer away from the beach.  A pup that loves me unconditionally.  But a husband that loves me unconditionally? I don’t know. 

Having all of the sand to ones self is amazing.  No light pollution from any other iPhone than my own.  No sound from parties of joy,  no sounds of sorrow to be heard, no sounds other than the moon bouncing off of our salt water. 

But, I was trying to be nice…

“I don’t know what I said? He told me that he didn’t like how I treated my dog. He doesn’t even know me!” I couldn’t believe that someone questioned my love for animals and my ethics.

“Maybe it was you.” Thanks, husband. No longer the trusty sidekick.

The argument progressed. I was told that I was wrong. Husband needed a carpenter and my friend’s husband was a carpenter. I don’t understand how my intentions were misconstrued.

“Fine. If you think it was my fault, let me out. “

My convertible slowed with him behind the wheel and I peeked the passenger door open while the car kept cruising at 12 mph.

“We’re so close to home, let me out!”

“What we’re doing is going back to beat this guy’s ass. “

“Whatever. You’re done. Let me out and do whatever you’re going to do.”

He pulled over to the side of 30a and slowed. I opened the passenger door and I placed my right foot on the asphalt.

I don’t understand. It was my fault a few seconds ago? I need to get out of car and walk home. It’s less than a half a mile away.

The tires squealed. Thank god the top was down or else I would have been drug further than in the u-turn.

On my feet.

Face? Okay.
Forehead – crown – back – neck. I’m okay.

“CALL 9-1-1! CALL 9-1-1!” strangers shouted from their balcony.

“I’m okay! I’m okay… I’m… okay.”

My Sperry flip flop is in the middle of 30A. There’s no one coming. Get it and get home.

He finally stopped and turned around at our friends restaurant a quarter mile away. After I made it across the road, He raged by in my car with the top up.

He took the time to put the top up.

He stopped at the stop sign and left the driver side door open when he left the car to walk home.

After looking both ways in the dark for headlights, I crossed the 30A with tears in my eyes and picked up my stray flip flop on the center line.


Just put it on.
Walk down the bike path.


I don’t remember any of it, thankfully.
He always gets violent. It’s not when he’s trashed. It’s not when we’re sober. It’s when he’s 3-4 Budweisers deep with a couple shots of Beam. He can still be a gentleman. He can still talk to strangers.