Again there it is again. Guitar maybe, maybe not still it strums the heart and it sinks him down low. It's good to be low - so low - slow and low. Eyes open barely wide enough for light to pass through lashes and there she is. Is she? No of course not. Of course - no.

     Eyes close and there she is. She can't hide - he can't hide from her even in his mind.  Breathing one breath hold it. Stop breathing just long enough to die. Sleeping would be oh so damned nice if just once pray it be twice. To sleep to forget to open eyes to a new world a world free of pain a world where - where she isn't.

     Such a terrible thought! Lips curl and brows furrow. She can't go; don't you let her go. Hurting is good; anything is good when it's got something of her in it. Hold it still hold her deep never ever let her go not even in bits of sleep.

     One eye opens she isn't there. Look around. My God she is gone. She didn't leave time to speak. Words should have stayed her. Words if only words had come to save her. Nose burns and eyes water if only words had done to keep her.

     One eye closes lips parting - waiting for words, words leaving him just as quickly as they had seemed ready to spill. Every moment she tempts his soul on toward her madness quiet sadness not so bad this deep blue madness. Not so hard this place of bliss. If only words had come in time. If - only - if.

     One eye opens and words stay inside. Wrapping around behind his eyes they laugh run to hide they won't stop taunting his tongue. Maybe these are the right ones. Just as quickly as before they conspire to abandon him.

     She left so why not her words with her? Why not - all together? Why should they stay on when she - when she has gone. What need has he for words anyway? Would they make her come? Could they make her stay?          

     What need of words? Ephraim rubs his head feels sweat's cooled granules coating his brow and wishes for a ride. He'd do anything for a ride.

     Space and Time fill his dreams as he rests his head against the bench and again simpler thoughts slip silently by never lighting on his tongue. Simpler thoughts teasingly catch at the fabric of his mind every time he rests seldom and never for long. Ephraim listens thus endlessly on for words he is beginning to think will never come.

     Smiling she meets him with whispers she greets him and her hands guide his own. Ephraim smiles too creasing the sweat and dust staining his face. He wakes his smiles turning to frowns for letting her go is the hardest come down. The daylight delights in pains slapping him around again.

     Something to say something he should have told her. Something pulls him slowly apart inside every time she walks through his mind and lately she has taken to coming by whenever his eyes are closed.

     One eye opens only one and there's a kid smiling up from his bicycle. It's a red stingray chrome head light and chrome fenders. The kid waves. One eye closes. She smiles and he knows that pain again.

     Something needs saying but it lies in wait helping his pain. She speaks. An eye opens. Ephraim watches them talk as if they are puppets shadow puppets telling their stories to sleepy eyed children on a hot autumn's afternoon.

     "There it is," says the first one.

     "Yeah?" answers the second.

They sit across the aisle on the bus and they talk about catching trains.          

     "Yeah I caught a freight from Vancouver here last month. Got stopped here right the hell here and then the damned thing turned back to the South!" says the first.

     "No s***?" asks the second.

     "No s***," says the first "spent three days in this hole waiting to catch another ride north."

     "No s***?" asks the second.

     "No s***."

One eye closes and Ephraim rolls his head away trying to ignore them. Nothing to say they've got not one of his words.

     Hailstones fall and an eye opens as she slides away another eye looks to see ice dancing across the ground. Beer smells and somewhere someone sells "Hot Bowled Peanuts get yer Hot Bowled Peanuts!"

     "This is it, off the bus at last."

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The following poetic-prose is off my website, www.thoughtup.com

Michael, just a run-through, in Seattle.