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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v114) (the January 2013 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

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Growth

Liam Spencer

The tortured minutes churn
Into hours that make up the day
And the days, slowly,
Turn into weeks
Which turn into months

And slowly, so slowly
The wounds turn to scars
And memories fade
Into the current consciousness
And the flood subsides

The sting of the loneliness
Becomes the norm once again
And one cannot help but wonder
If it could ever be good again
If their best times have already past

And the new norm is distant, cold,
Heartless, lifeless, and silent,
but open to possibilities,
although none are appealing
all it offers is newness.

The sound of muffled weeping,
A pillow soaked through
Takes the place of lovemaking
That would be followed
By the soft snore of a loved one

And the cold morning
Gives way to stumbled footsteps
Heading to the coffeemaker
Walking on her rug
Seeing her painting

Outside staring at the place
Where she would appear
Rounding the corner on her way over
For a night of greatness
Only strangers appear there now

Going to the club that was once ours
Only strangers are there too
They buy shots and say
“I love this guy!”
There’ll be no love tonight.

Finding little things she left behind
Remembering happier times
When she was around, or at least interested
It feels almost like continuation,
Yet almost like a death

What would she have wanted me to do?
What would she think of this?
Wait until she hears the news!
Yet she is nowhere to be found
The only her is of memory.

And the minutes churn to hours
And then to days and weeks
The love and laughter turn to silence
Hope dies a slow death
And memories fade to legend

A warm heart grows colder.

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