open books

Are we not
like open books,
wearing hearts on our sleeves,
visible and endearing as dog-eared pages,                 
yet knowing the best we offer,
the juiciest parts of us,
will be found only by those wanting,
daring enough,
to read between the lines?


 

nothing lasts forever

I have been very wrongly accused by the wife of a friend, an old and dear friend.  Her words came at me in the night, unexpectedly and with the tone of a woman scorned.  

My friend, now a stranger to me, a ghost, chose to cease our friendship.

I've no place to present myself except in this spot, this blank slate where I come to always speak honestly and from my heart, but the very truths which I could write, which might help a misguided wife find her way, I suspect, would fall on deaf ears. 

I am sad.  I am hurt.  I am pissed.