The Space Between Two Dreams

I discovered acceptance of self
and unconditional love of those around me
hidden in the space between two dreams

I was left with only two choices:
wake up, or fall back asleep

fully aware of the impossibilities
of recreating scenes
and finishing conversations

it’s all fuzzy,
my mouth is full of sand

for two seconds I know it all
and don’t say a goddamn word
I have the needle to stitch it all together

and just like that…the thread is gone

Tues. Blues

I feel good
as I should
don’t want to be
down
on your paper tears

your clumsy crown

your folded fortune
teller

telling me
what I do not
want to hear

as my convictions
flutter in the wind
like the pages
of your journal

dog-eared
& X’ed out
unrecognizable

I feel on the edge
as if I may disappear
on any given Tuesday

I feel impossible
light as a feather
from a stolen angel’s wing

I feel invisible
a speck of dust
in the corner
of your tear duct

I feel disregard
recklessly
careening
down life’s road

don’t want to be
down
on your powdered clown

your upside down

soapbox depravity

your folded paper crown
& flimsy stars

I feel good
far too good for a Tuesday

Broken Song

I conjured
up a broken song of her
pondered
just where it was that we went wrong

I lingered
a bit too long on her
fond of her
I was & now I wander

she severed
each & every tie with me
never
again, she said

she’s better
off without me
letters
I still send, and she burns

and I still burn
as I think of
her
out there without me

I long for her
yet go on forgotten
it’s wrong of me
to carry on any longer

Shopping For One

I thought I saw her
reflection
in the frozen food aisle,

In the glass door imagery,
but it was just me
attaching meaning

To processed food & freezer meat

It was just me

The same as it was when
I pretended to argue with
myself instead of listening
to the unusual voice of reason
pouring forth from her

Much like the reason she left
in the first place

The reason I argue with myself

In the frozen food aisle.

It would be much easier to yell
at someone to “please move
your fucking cart”
or to ask “where is the Goddamn
baking soda?”

But, instead, the store clerk
laughs, and calls me
Tyler Durden behind my back

Yet I still see her face in the woman
picking produce

I still see her face when I unpack
my lonely groceries,
walk alone up my somber driveway,
and pour my cup of coffee
every morning –
the one I always let get cold

As cold as my
blue-lipped soul…

By Christopher Rupley and Steve Shultz 2015

(This is a collaborative poetic work between myself and the talented (and prolific!) writer/poet Christopher Rupley. Please check out some of his other work by visiting the link above).