Saturday, July 30, 2005

Town Crier - non-fictional prose

It's 11:09 and there is only silence.

I used to love this time, after bedtime,
when children were safe and dreaming
and the dryer had finally stopped
for the last time of the day.

Tonight it's just quiet and lonely,
yet if there were people here,
anyone at all
to expect anything from me,
it would be too much.

I miss the solitude
found in quiet intimacy -
thighs that were comfortable
with the other's brush,
head and chest on familiar terms,
hands that fit so perfectly,
mine inside yours
like some wonderfully cliched puzzle.

Where contentedness once reigned,
grows only unrest,
and it seems that to touch
only serves to remind one another of sadness.


  1. Thinking of you, E.

  2. the old adage that when it rains, it pours certainly applies here. If only I could help in any way instead of making things worse. Be well.

  3. ..and like a sonic zoom in a frequency of a quiet boom ..comes Dr Rg ..oh wait, that was in another life now its just DJ Rg..

    project thyself high
    within the astral of minds
    projects; a real touch.

  4. Wow that was a very impactful poem. It stuck a nerve with me; i guess because I felt like I could've written it.

  5. Anonymous5:56 PM

    Fine poem, Erin.
    A quiet reflection on present
    circumstances, with an unspoken hope in the background for a better time in the future.
    Good stuff.