this place

It’s strange inside this place.

I want to get up out of my seat and walk around.

She keeps nudging my shoulder.
Touching my arm.

“It’s soft” she says, drifting and drowsy…unaware of her actions.

I want to get up and walk around.

But I look outside the window instead.
The massive sandstorm of lights makes the darkness approachable.

If I were a level up from the crazy I already encompassed…I might think of jumping into it.

Let the dark swallow me whole.

Make friends with the unknown.

I want to get up and walk around.

I can hear her breathing. Her eyes are closed…finally.

She’s asleep.

If I move swiftly she might never notice my departure.

Though my absence…

That will be hard to ignore.

She looks so peaceful sleeping.

Hard to imagine such a quiet moment within that which brings forth so much chaos…

inside me.

I could pretend she never closed her eyes.


The sky is twinkling.


My senses are slipping.

The whirlpool is twisting and I feel glued to my seat.

But how?

She’s not even awake.

Her eyelids flutter as if she can hear my thoughts.

Maybe she can…

Read my thoughts.

I lean over her sleeping body…staring as though she were looking back at me.

In almost a hush I tell her, “I’d like to get up and walk around. And see…what else is out…there. I want to try and…get up.”

She shudders, then is still again.

Her cheeks flushed and red. I want to touch her face but I’m stuck…

Here in this seat.

Beside her, but not next to her.

I touch the air around her. Inhaling it’s bitter coolness. I lean over again and softly say, “I will get up…but…if you want me to stay…just open your eyes…

And look at me.”

8 responses to “this place

  1. Oh love, what a brutal emotion. Your interpretation of feeling is wonderful to read.

  2. This is special. Love your blog!

  3. Taschka, I must tell you what a big fan I am of your writing and your blog. I can feel the love in all of what you say. Your passion is tremendous and so is your talent. Keep it up.

  4. I would give anything to be the girl you write about. Your poetry is almost as beautiful as you, but not quite.

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