off-the-wallflower child

Weeping willows, and weeping widows. The Airlington cemetry had a quiet beauty in summertime daylight until guards marched a departed soldier amidst tears and mournful trumpets. A black coffin, the American flag, the weeping widow and the weeping willows, quietly beside her. Caffeine

The Dry Dock, 1993, Leeds is an old boat pub. I hear a hard rock band play and I immediately fall in love with the Dry Dock, anchored in green sea, lonely among the pub crawling Otley Run. Maybe I do fall easily in love. Caffeine

I like to sit with the cold benches at the local cemetry on Beckett Street and read a serious book. The fortunate and unfortunate passed have sweetly wooed me in love with the calm quiet cool air, the smell of wet soil and tree barks and moss. When the sun burns the back of my neck warmly, I smell the dark coffee and cigarettes of idle nurses who live across the street in the red-brick hospital. And shadows hide, seek, play on the graves and tombstones and tire at dusk. When it is too dark to see the lines of my book, I wander and wonder and listen to, perhaps their gentle breaths. I can not envy the dead but I enjoy their good, wise company. Caffeine

He sat down on a wooden stool, and yet that proof of existence was too shallow to begin to play impulsive theories on why or how he existed. His sly eyes and his mischievous ingenuity flushed my skin and yet, still did he exist? Really, or at all? I suppose the definition of existence, as long as you are the mind behind the reason is significant to you alone. So, that he exists is in what context? Not the mere appearance of existence, but the knowledge of existence. Caffeine

"His writing was sparse, elegant and full of self-deprecating wit. When he described smoking a cigarette under a desert cloudburst, he was Hemmingway to me, or Graham Greene, every mysterious adventurer framed by solitude in a foreign land. We drained the hotel minibar daily and greeted the sunrise exhausted with room-service coffee. A few long kisses, no physical affair... For my husband, forgiveness was not an act of heroism or even complacency, but an instinctive gesture of compassion and the deepest friendship. My husband believed in the simplicity of commitment, not as default but as an act of will. So, I took a deep breath and let the other man go."