I love to ask the hard questions. I get off on digging deep, and then taking my pointed shovel and digging deeper, pulling out the darkest, dirtiest parts of a conversation. I want to feel it in my bones, I want to know someone’s heart and feel the vibration of emotion underneath my skin. That’s the kind of talk I’m interested in. I want gazes met and burning, talk of how it felt and where it’s going and what we want this minute and ten million minutes from now. I need to hear about what hurts, about what knocked you down, the way you drowned yourself in tequila and how ashamed you have been of the things you have done, and how it felt while you were lying there bleeding out. I will tell you the same, and I will tell you how we will rise again. I want you to know how it feels to have my magic hit yours with full force, over and over again with laughter in my eyes and courage in my heart. I want to hear the need for bigger things, for great joy, and the great passion you only speak of when you are alone in your head.

Fuck the glazing over of things. I’m out of time for wasted hours and minutes, spent on words about things that don’t matter and don’t light my fire. There’s too much to do, too much to say, to waste anymore time on things that don’t build a legacy. Things that don’t speak to the kind of person I want to be. We spend so much time on running down the meaningless details of our days..the things that have no bearing on our life going forward; we spend so much time with the things that bleed us dry that there is nothing left to keep us alive. So we sit. We sit in the silence, in the living rooms, at the dinner tables, at the kitchen counters alone with a bottle of vodka and a tear streaked face with a starving, lonely heart.
We drive 20 extra miles the long way just to be able to sit in silence with ourselves, because it’s more nourishing than sitting in silence with another when our soul is screaming to communicate. To say what no one wants to say. To ask the questions we may not want answers to. To feel the weight lifted, and our chest fill with air for the first time in days..or is is years?

We stand in the living room of our life, a life we created, looking at the artwork on the walls and wonder where it came from. Would we choose the same canvases if given the chance to choose again? Why or why not? The why is not to be forgotten. The Why is so important….yet I hear over and over, ‘just because’. There is not just because. If there is no why…there is nothing but emptiness. Ask why, about the job, about the lover, about the sofa, about the roadtrip…ask it now. If it screams yes with a voice of a thousand reasons, embrace it. If you receive no answer, accept the gift and lesson with an open heart, be it wounded or angry…let it be open. Then onward, with eyes and heart focused.


Sandy - November 19, 2015 - 9:29 pm


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There isn’t much that needs to be said in the dusk.
Wild hands through wild hair that has been waiting, waiting.
I could lose my fingers in this mess forever.
Tracing artwork up and down your body,
there was never any doubt that you are a masterpiece.
The tug of your smile at the corner of those lips is bread
to this hungry soul.
Eyes full of adventure drink me in.
Who needs to stop for breakfast when we can stop on the side of the road
and have each other?
Hands traveling over my bare knees
while you sing me that Ray LaMontagne song that just. does. it.
Dust clouds billow around as we slide off the road
and there we are again
hands tangled in hair and legs tangled in legs and soul tangled in soul.
You lay my head on your hand and my heart in your heart quietly in the bed of your truck as we settle in to watch the sun come up
on the first day of the rest of our lives.


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If there was but one day left,
I would spend it with you.
I would take your hand and show you how to laugh again.

We would roll in the grass and eat ice cream,
we would swing until our bums came off the seats.
We would name the clouds,
and find a sprinkler to get wet in.
We could jump over the cracks,
dance in the street,
and scream at the top of our lungs into the world.

I would not waste time talking,
I would invest time listening.
I would breathe in the way you moved,
the way your eyes widened at the sky, the way your toes curled in the fresh soil.
I would memorize your breath and the color of your lips,
and sit in wonder of all of the beautiful works of art
that your mouth had yet to create.

If there was but one day left.
I would spend it with you.

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Love Letter Lost

You are my optimum time, my perfect exposure, my key of C.

My dark roasted coffee in the early morning and the taste of sweet red wine at twilight. My favorite book, with its familiar creases and folds, telling me the stories I long to hear over and over again.

The voice in the night that shakes me from my own darkness, the skin that cools my soul when it is burning down and warms my weary heart again.

You are the pianissimo to the fortissimo in my thoughts, the rolling tide to the crashing of my wild heart.

You are the wage I have struggled to earn, the battle I have been fighting, and hands pressed together in treaty, rain on the tin roof of my dreams and the soulfful harmonica keeping time with my acoustic heart.

You are the everything and the always, the never was and has beens wrapped into a promise of forever and missed moments lost for a lifetime.

I am the light shining into your dark waters, beckoning you home.

I am yours.

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All I ever wanted was to be touched by someone who could actually touch me.

Someone who could put their hands on me and radiate magic with me. Someone who’s presence I could feel. Someone who’s power radiated with mine. Like the hum of a bass line, and the stroke of the drum, someone who would sway and dance with me.

He would wake in the morning and be sitting in the kitchen, drinking the strongest coffee and breathing in the dawn when I joined him, wrapped in his sweater. There would be a smile at the side of his lips at the sight of my wild hair and bare feet on the cold autumn floors. He would pull himself begrudgingly from my kiss on his way out the door to work, his boots only half tied so that he could taste me just one extra time before eight hours apart. My baby would get lost in thoughts of our tangled breath in the midnight during his lunch break and tell the boys that he couldn’t meet for drinks tonight, because he was taking his lady out. He would pick me up and I would be wearing that blue dress he loves, my hair long and my eyes full of magic for him. We would go and listen to beautiful music, and he would ask me to dance in the middle of the it all. The hum of the bass line surrounds us, and the world falls away as we press together. Suddenly, we are in the woods beneath the trees we so often escaped to, and they are blanketing us, dancing in the cool autumn wind. We are dancing in the light of the moon that sneaks in flashes between the high draped limbs that promise to keep us safe from the rest of the world. His skin is on fire next to mine, and the glow of him is second only to staring directly into the morning sun. His light wraps around me on the forest floor and he washes over me as smoothly as the sweet wine we sipped as we cooked dinner last night in our tiny kitchen. He tells me the story of us again, and then reads to me from the book of his dreams, filling me with his hopeful, quiet heart. Confessing to my lips as his priest, he bows our bodies and I have no choice but to worship him the way I was born to.

This morning I sit alone, wishing for the woods again.

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