where the writers are
I Don't remember Her

I don't remember
her because she was too quick and fleeting.

Leaving me in bouts of long
absences, and seemed like only a shadow stolen by darkness.

 I don't remember if
it was me who became too old or she became too young.

 Maybe I forgot her and
let her wither away and disappear like an insignificant thought.

Maybe she is just
for the youth because they still dream, and see with their hearts.

They fight
off life's cold winters with warm beating cabin fireplaces.

 Optimism and hope
stoke their blazes like ripe logs still scented with reminisce of cedar and

 I'll sip to romance like a fallen war friend wounded on the frontline of

Sometimes I think romance is for the foolish, easily fascinated by
beautiful stories.

 Maybe she's for naive children and their bedtime fables.
I'll blow a kiss to romance for her mythologies, elusiveness, and simplicity.

But I

I remember the
strolls on the board walk, the one off of Inamorata Blvd,

A timber passage
way, a lumber lovers lane 

It guided out to the river, how I remember the calm still surface of the

That always seemed to be so perfectly reflecting the passing clouds above 

Slow moving thoughts and sketches; traveling heavenly dreams and

I vividly remember looking down into the crystal clear blue

A portrait labored and birthed from the womb of sapphires and indigos

Fluent fluctuating tides carrying her smile, a moment's salvation

Her hair in the sun, golden satin with amber streaks

We were hand in hand with warm gentle palms and intertwined fingers

Touching hearts and connected coiled vessels

The sparkle in her eyes, flawless diamonds and green rubies

her words were love wrapped in royal navy blue

Tied with a red ribbon, echoes of loyalty, honor, and passion

Together we breathed in the air that seemed so pure, so innocent

I remember her lips, a soft rosy pink, reminding me of her compassionate

My very spirit frolicked suddenly on the kissing wind

And in that very moment time froze

Twirling branches, tearful, silent, becoming weeping willows

And then I remembered a secret that burst forth from my soul, like a dammed
River Nile

In that liberating betrayal, in a whispering voice, I said, "I
loved her"