1) The red garland. I always handed you the tape backward. Always got cold putting the candy canes outside. Asked math questions late at night.
2) The garland: dust. The candy canes: melted. The questions: unheard. Locked in the past. Memories no longer shared.
3) My mind, alone, naked. Only half without yours. Lost. Bisected and bleeding on display.
4) Time cannot heal a halved mind’s memories, only change them. Turn them into lies.
5) With time you are lost, a creation of my mind, an imagination. How to preserve you? I slow down and see you still there, next to me.
6) And I panic. More of you, I need more. Can I delay time’s decay of our past? Until I am no longer a mind myself?
7) Memories. If I can’t preserve you, can I preserve us, in my mind? It’s too late. It’s too late. I need more time. I can never catch up.


Copyright © 2014 Philosopagus
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The narcissistic necrophile kills himself

and the wind mocks the silence of the still

and the rain replaces tears of those he loved.


And in the end he’s alive again

and in a crowd he suffers

becoming envious of those stillborn.


The beginning of the circle reaches him again

and he looks out from the bridge.

High above the cemeteries

tries to burrow into loneliness

but grows winged feet.


He cannot jump and has no hands

his punishment is life

in Heaven where the crowds of the dead

are untouchable.


And the wind dies. And he loves it. And falls.

His wings no longer work.


And the rain dies. And he disintegrates. No longer hidden by the clear drops.

He falls to the ocean no longer one with the sky.


And the corpses stir in their graves

at his presence in their depths

and they seize him

and he drowns

and his body is found alone


at the top of a mountain in the clouds.

He looks at God, who shakes his head. And an avalanche ensues. An avalanche of bodies. And he falls further and further away from them. The dying bodies. He watches them die. And loves them.


Yet he lives. And because of this, will hate himself.


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1) I was already in bed when you got home from work that night. You used to tuck me in. Some nights I’d pretend to be asleep.
2) One night you waited silently at my bedside. I listened, pretending. Waiting to hear you leave.
3) I can’t remember why I pretended to be asleep. Prognosticating what’s to come years later.
4) I didn’t hear you. You must have left, not wanting to wake me. I slowly turn around in my loft bed.
5) You were there, waiting. You knew I was awake, and you jumped out at me. I squealed, and you laughed.
6) And I was happy you tricked me. But, through your laugh, did you know I pretended to be asleep?
7) The first frayed thread of our bond. I pull. A childhood, unraveled, hiding from you.


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A Ship of Theseus family. Mother, Father, Brother. And me. Close. And then, Brother dies.

And I regret, resent Time.


Now I am a Mom, married to a Dad. A new family. My family?

No. Not Mother, Father, Brother. And me.

But then, Mother and Father pass.

And all that’s left is me of this Theseus family. I replace Mother with myself as Mom, and Father with Dad. Two roles I am reluctant to recast.

And a new little Sister and Brother.


And now on my deathbed, I am alone. Mother, Father, Brother, gone. My family. Turned over.

If we held hands, me as Mom and you as Dad, both dying.

And you go first. Would I cry knowing

that there would be no time for me to be without you?

Is it death that saddens, or loss by death? As I am dying, fading, I think: “Here I go. That was life.”


A new husband and new wife.


Copyright © 2014 Philosopagus
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1) “You abandoned me,” she says to her father. She must have forgotten. He sees the dark approach.
2) A shapeless voice from the dark is pleased with her perspective. “Yes,” says the dark, coiling around her waist.
3) She feels the pull, familiar. She knows that she is falling, but realizes too late. Her father watches, recognizing, extending his hand.
4) She recoils into the dark. It covers her shoulders, seducing her. She can see clearly in the dark. She can feel.
5) Her father’s hand does not drop, though she is lost. She cannot see it reaching out to her. She feels the tender darkness on her back.
6) The void. And she’s filled with hate, and sorrow, and turns to the dark. Everywhere, but its voice now silent. She is alone.
7) And she wonders, too late, “Or, maybe, did I abandon you?” Her father’s hand eternally reaching.


Copyright © 2014 Philosopagus
All Rights Reserved

I used to run to greet you when you’d walk through the door after work. I was small. Maybe it was 7pm. I’d hear the garage door before it opened. I’d hear you before the dogs heard you, because I’d be waiting, listening. And I’d hear. And then we’d all run over together, me and the dogs, and wait at the door. “Dad’s home.”

Or I’d hide on the couch, the back of it facing the door, when I was even smaller. And I’d pop out to surprise you. And somehow it was always new to you. It was always fresh. I never imagined that you might have had a bad day at work, because there was always a smile waiting for me, too, on the other side of the door. Always a hug, as if you’d been waiting all day to see me like I’d been waiting to see you.

One day, I didn’t get off the couch. Maybe I was 15. And you walked in. I’d heard the door. The dogs didn’t. They were going deaf. I listened to you in the kitchen. You put down your bag. You loosened your tie. I sat silently in the dark. And then you came over to the couch and stood, looking at me. You had thought I wasn’t home, because I didn’t greet you at the door.

Another ten years. The weight of what kept me sitting on the couch back then drags at my feet. It binds them together. It trips me when I run to you now. So infrequently do you walk through the door. A new door. My door, miles away from yours.

The doorbell rings. I perk up. You are on the other side, smiling, as if you’d been waiting all day, month, year to see me. I run to the door. The air becomes molasses, my weights grow heavier. The doorbell rings again. I slow. My ankles bound tighter. I crawl. The door grows closer, the space, thicker. Paralyzed, I run. I finally get to you, reaching out. I turn the knob.

And you’re already gone.

You must have thought I wasn’t home.


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1) The wind walloped him. An invisible enemy, but he didn’t mind. The noise quieted his restless thoughts.
2) He looked out into the ocean, the same color as the unlit sky, blending into one another seamlessly.
3) Seamlessly. He searched for it. What exists within that invisible seam, between the ocean and the stars? The wind pushed him forward.
4) Not yet. He wasn’t ready yet. He held onto the rail of the peeling red bridge and looked out, noticing the cold of the summer air.
5) He noticed everything. Felt everything. Remembered everything. Fresh-cut grass. Ex-wife’s lips, wet with salty grief. Baby shoes, unworn.
6) As his foot lifted off the ledge, he thought “this is a mistake.”
7) As he floated through the seam of the ocean and the sky, he thought “this is all that’s left of me.”


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 All Rights Reserved