A loving woman.

Honestly? I have no clue. It is very honest though. My soul is bare.

I think life lies somewhere between the spirit and the leash.

I think the heaviest burden is the tightening of the collar,

and each year it gets tighter,

and you’re not barefoot in the grass anymore,

and candyfloss tastes cloying, does it not?

You’re old,

and then you die, or you don’t,

but the spirit does,

in some unassuming way.

The Great Barrier, Grief.

So you weep, and if you don’t, my friend,

well, you should.

In the morning, I drink coffee, with loads of cream.

I hold the cup in my hand like a hiker in the night

holding a flashlight,

and I hope a way will be found, a worn-down sign

that points to base camp.

That life will work itself out,

somehow.

I wish I had someone to turn to, like a wise mother,

and she’d tell me “Sugar, you’re blowing it way out of proportion.”
I’d think “Mom, my proportions are as accurate as Michelangelo’s”,

but I wouldn’t tell her.

I wouldn’t want to upset her.

I’m like a quiet inamorata though,

That is my biggest perk.

Despite my bitterness, I am a loving woman.

I can’t help but love.

A suffocating dog, so I am, and I'm on a leash

And this damn collar,

gets tighter every year.

Nevertheless, with my last, caffeinated breath, I swear, I’ll utter

“I love you.”