I was just looking through my Blackberry, and then I felt like posting all the things I've written in there. Most of them were while I was driving to or from work, although the last one is from this afternoon while I was laying on the couch.



You told me it was the postal man and you knew because of the colours and the symbol. You know I think you're smart, and I'm not just saying that because you're mine. You are. And when you get older you better use it for good.



I guess I should have said more or done more cause you looked at me expectantly, but I was too shy. Then maybe things would have been different, and we could have had a future. Is that so impossible to think I could have made you happy? I think so, but we'll never know.

Each time you said you'd come for a visit, but you didn't, and everytime I've been there I didn't tell you in advance. So maybe it's both of us to blame, and not one of us is right. It's easier to be disappointed anyway. I think I expected too much.

You didn't kiss me goodbye, and I didn't kiss you. It wasn't long before you met someone else, so yeah, I wonder if I'd been outgoing where it would have gone, and maybe you'd be leaving me messages and writing little notes. Poems and excerpts of our life together or apart.





Fields of yellow flowers turned green and further off they're golden and covered with snow. There's a season for everything. But I like this one.
I stumble les when I talk and there's less of a chill in my bones. So I'll take in the heat while complaints of sufferings are made. But I don't care. I'm comfortable.

On a Spring day I can put on my striped turtle neck, a cardigan and my lightweight jacket and take in the outdoors. Sniff the air suspiciously, hoping not to catch that smell of snow and ice still in the air, but it's early and a blanket of white could settle down at anytime. Just keep the mittens on the stairs and the thick jacket at the front of the closet even though I can't believe I'll ever need them again with the sun shining and warming me up.




I'd write my messages of disappointment and frustration in hding places, secret places, all the things I couldn't say. And I couldnt' say a lot. So if you ever paint or redecorate you'll be in for some shock and maybe you'll cover my words with mud when you remove the picture frames and see the indentations in the wall behind. You'll paint over, cover it up and forget. If you ask I'll say they don't mean anything, and I did it so long ago, but no matter the year it's still fresh and clear in my mind and my heart, and I still feel all those things.