Sundays at Tiffany’s, hour twenty-three

There is something so appealing to a story of a man and a woman,

isn’t it?

But the story can never be simple; toss in domineering mother element,

an old friendship, a new romance. Give our protagonist flaws.

Make them suffer. Beauty is in suffering, isn’t it?

Then when the end comes and it’s happy, it’s all the sweeter, isn’t it?

But isn’t that just goddamn wrong.

There is no light at the end of the rainbow, no right answer.

Say the story slightly misses the mark; the heroine walks off

without a lover’s spine supporting her

(though we all love a steamy scene or two with the opposite lead)

and goes into the sunset, loveless, but lovely in her pain and power,

goddess-like, and seizes her own, and gets that ring for herself,

to be herself, to connect with a bigger world,

wouldn’t that just be something, rather than the many other angel stories

where the heroine never learned to walk alone at all.

Back Again, Rosie Cotton-Gamgee, poem twenty

What’s once been lost was found again,

the Fellowship once made was broken,

or so my husband likes to tell me,

but all is well at home.

A cat at the hearth, golden babes at home,

and Samwise my darlin’ rests his feet by the stove.

Second Breakfast is here, and as he dreams,

I know he is home, but his heart drifts beyond these beams

To a time before, and a Hobbit Baggins boy,

a ring, and a promise, and fires of Mount Doom.

And though there is sun, and good rich earth

and love enough to plant him,

like a vine he’ll sometimes search

for the friend he loved and reach,

a bond beyond even ours.

Wind Witch, poem nineteen

Somewhere in the blue,

amongst the clouds,

there is a small woman,

who lives in a cottage

surrounded by bees,

and floating with the breeze.

Finally, hour eighteen

Thousands of miles from home,

fourteen hours of flying,

two years of waiting,

I turned over, and he was there,

us asleep together, bodies intertwined,

to wake up and know he was there,

this was real, and it was not a dream.

Wendigo, hour seventeen

Crunching snow beneath heavy boots, I walked alone.

Hands tucked in my pockets, breath fogging as clear light glinted.

But as snow began to fall, there was such a weight. Such a weight

like a man’s, heavy, when pure, clear air was sliced open

with a stench from a something. And though I couldn’t look,

not until I turned, I could see it, waiting, watching, with manlike intelligence.

Wendigo, a small voice said, but it was already too late.

It sat, long arms propped on thin knees, shaggy head bent,

baleful eyes watching with a glinting red.

“I was starving,” it rasped. A clawed hand flexed, but still its’ head bowed.

“My children cried.”

Was it asking redemption, I wanted to ask. But I remained silent.

My heart pounding, but feet frozen, waiting. Almost daring.

Animal cunning, manlike hatred.

Again it spoke with the voice of a man, in a growl,

so hard my teeth rattled and my legs bowed.

“The hot anger in your heart will leave you cold in the ground.”

Then I woke. But still the memory remains, and

“The bodies of three individuals were found. Witnesses claim to have seen the father wandering through blizzards, but they had been deceased at least three months and partially—“

Yes to Aesthetic, hour sixteen

Bent over my workbench at midnight,

painting, drawing, patiently marking down

small pieces of art, quietly cataloguing

all the silly things I do for art, for love,

for following money. The shop filled

with niche likes, the cheap art and

the many things I love and surrender

to be taken elsewhere. Impostor syndrome

whispers in my ear; will they ever care enough

to take my loved things, buy them and bring them home?

Bad Woman, Good Girl, hour fifteen

Hot.

The feeling crawls up, between my legs, sliding against my back,

and I can’t help but shift forward, hips pressing back as I wait,

ass tilted up, quivering as I wait. I want to hear that low voice,

a simple command, a rough hand gripping hard enough to mark,

teeth against my throat. There’s always a primal urge, to hold back,

to bite, to rake and take and snarl as he grips back, eyes blazing

with that smirk, that taunt as he teases, edges me until I melt,

until I beg, with his voice low in my ear, making me want

to pull him closer between my thighs until I fall apart.

“Good girl.”

The Match Girl, hour fourteen

Many years ago, I read a story of a small girl, lost and alone.

Selling matches by the book, fingers stained black with soot,

ignored on this frozen day, lighting matches to make her way.

And I remember feeling grief for a tale, of a girl so long ago,

lighting matches by the book to retain a lively glow.

And if the moral of this story is, be careful what you dream,

may I continue lighting matches to keep the light burning.

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