When she...

Once, when her mind grew restless, she would whisper, “Hey babe, I need my counselor.”  

That was my title; the keeper of her truth, bruised but honest.  

I held her confessions close, bled them clean with words that stung,  

yet never judged. My voice was the lantern she followed  

when the darkness gathered too thick around her thoughts.

When sadness took her, she called me best friend.  

And I would fly to her, armorless, desperate to gather the pieces of her soul she dropped.  

She would cry, and I’d whisper that she was beautiful,  

that no storm could erase her light,  

and that she would always have me... a promise I meant,  

a promise I would bleed out to keep.

When jealousy consumed her, she called me names sharp enough to mortally wound the air.  

She was terrified of what would happen were she to losing me; and I of proving her right.  

So I’d take her trembling hand and walk her toward her imagined rival.  

With a fool’s smile I’d say, “Pardon me mam, see this woman here? I’d burn my life to ashes for her.”  

She’d punch me, blush crimson apologies to the girl, and drag me away. 

When we were out of sight she would climb me like a tree,  

kissing me until even the birds on a fence could no longer watch.

When anger claimed her mind, the house would quake.  

Even the cat would vanish into safer shadows.  

Still I would walk into her fire boldly!   

Not to extinguish it, nor to play the hero  

but simply to be where she would one day collapse,  

ash falling from her sighs, her head finding its home  

on the shoulder built to bear her ruin and rebuild her.

When desire came, she called me handsome. 

Sometimes in daylight, sometimes in whispers that burned through walls.  

We danced through light & darkness, saints and sinners both,  

our rhythm slow as forgiveness or wild as regret.  

There was laughter amid our wounds. 

Laughter born from the madness of two souls reckless enough to love.

And when she missed me… she called me Baby.  

The word trembled down phone lines, wrapped in longing.  

Even on the phone I could hear the way she curled around my absence,  

pretending pillows were my shape.  

We’d talk until her breathing softened into dreams,  

and I’d whisper I love you  

before racing time itself to return to her in the dreamland.

But when she left... God, when she left... she called me nothing.  

And that silence was the name I now live under.  

No counsel left within me, no clever turn of phrase, no gallant rescue.  

No fire suit can save me from the burn of watching another hold her.  

No pillow, no prayer, no poetry can rebuild what she took.  

We shared a pulse and she forgot to leave me one of my own.

It seems when she leaves me…  

so do I.

~Austin never stood a chance~

The heat shimmers across the field, and through the waves of gold I see her, a flicker of movement turning into something familiar. Her hair whirls in the breeze, wild and untamable, like it always was. She’s wearing my white polo, the one that disappeared off my clothesline last week; half-buttoned, fluttering behind her like a flag representing her casual theft. 

Cutoff jeans, sun-kissed legs and that smirk that always warned trouble was coming.

She slows when she reaches the porch, but her smile hits me full force. Then she’s in motion again, running, leaping into my arms, pressing a warm kiss right between my eyebrows.  

“It’s been so long since we walked to the old willow,” she says breathlessly. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Some things you don’t question. You just go.

We follow the narrow path through three-foot-high wheat, the air thick with sunlight and nostalgia. I almost forget that trouble was born in a woman like her, until she glances back, walking backward with sassy sweetness.  

“So…” she starts, “I saw that little tramp from Austin dropped by yesterday.”

I wince. “She’s not a tramp,” I protest, trying for dignity but mostly sounding caught. “She just wanted to get to know me. Which is fine, since, you know… no one around here seems interested.”

She stops dead, making me walk right into her orbit. For a second, she’s just staring up at me, eyes flashing like a summer storm about to break.  

“What if I say she can’t get to know you?” she asks, jaw set, hair falling across her face like a curtain she’s too angry to push aside.

Behind that look, I can see the truth; the fear hiding inside that fury. The same fear that’s always made her love come out sideways. She’s afraid of me turning into another version of him.

I step around her, heading up the hill, voice low. “You sure don’t seem that interested in knowing me yourself.”

Behind me, the wind hums through wheat. I glance back and see her still standing there, hands on hips, chewing on a stalk. The breeze grabs a few strands of her hair and tosses them across her face, defiant and beautiful.

Then comes the sound; quick, sharp, growing louder. Bare feet hitting grass like a hunter’s drumbeat.

She tackles me from behind, and we go tumbling under the willow’s sweeping arms, crashing into laughter and the scent of crushed grass.

She pins me down, hands gripping mine, tears spilling over from eyes turned molten red with pain. “I do know you better than she does,” she spits between breaths. “She didn’t buy you bright clothes when all you owned were fifty shades of boring gray. She didn’t put your picture on her bedroom wall so her kids could get used to seeing your face. And she sure as hell didn’t sit freezing under a poncho sharing stories with you until dawn.”

Her voice breaks, raw and shaking. “She doesn’t love you so much she can’t sleep without you there.”

Her chest heaves. Tears fall; her words hang heavy in the warm air.  

“That empty spot in your bed,” she whispers, “it’s mine, damn it. Don’t let anyone else in it.”

I reach around her, lift her up, hold her tight. The fight melts away, replaced by a quiet we both recognize, it’s the peace right after a storm that’s nearly destroyed everything.

We sway under the willow’s low branches, its leaves brushing against us like soft applause. Eventually, she laughs; a breathless, wicked sound.

“What’s funny?” I ask, half-laughing myself.

She tilts her head, grinning through the remnants of her tears. “Austin never stood a chance.”

~The years we've yet to share~

There is this girl I love. It's not your everyday kind of love but she's not your everyday kind of girl. You see we are separate but she has touched the deepest part of me... loved the unlovable things and brought a colorful light to my darkest place. Though we are apart I never feel alone. I just soak in the beautiful warm memories we made together.
I dream of that lazy afternoon when she will once again join me in my pick-up truck, hit the dirt road, windows down, music up, her feet on my lap, her head out the window with the warm summer breeze in her hair.
I want to pull up to our spot on the beach and watch her dance barefoot in the sand, grab her, pull her close, swaying slowly in the moonlight, her head on my chest... lost in a long soft embrace.

As I lay here miles away, as the night grows heavy and my body begs for sleep... my heart; it keeps me awake.
It longs for her, it has always known her, it is lost without her... it misses her so.
Her last words to me still linger in my head
When she speaks I can't hear anything else.
Nothing could distract me, I hang on her every word.
She has become a warm safe place where life's fears and love's disappointments fade.
Her spirit comes to me at night and whispers reassurances of love to my heart. She knows it misses her and it knows she won't abandon us, not now... before we truly start. So I wait here. Remembering the passionate kisses we had. Reminiscing about the sweet love we made and cherishing the years we have yet to share.
I pray today she will be in my tomorrow,
holding my hand at my life's end.

~If she were gone~

She smiles for the camera the way she always does, not out of vanity, but because she knows what it does to me. She sends me photos on her lunch break, little reminders that I’m still on her mind, that for now I’m still the lucky one.

We fell asleep on the couch together, tangled up so close with my cheek rested against hers. The movie made her cry. They kissed in the end and found their way back to each other. She asked if I would wait for her, if I would run to her if she ever disappeared from my life. I told her, “My love, I never could have let you go,” and I held her until sleep finally took us both.

She takes such care with her makeup before we go out, always wanting to look perfect for the world. But when we come home, she washes it away, slips into sweats and my old t-shirt, and curls up in my lap like it’s the only place she belongs. Her head rests against my chest, and she smiles up at me with a nakedness no one else ever sees. Her softness, her unguarded self… she gives that only to me. I hold it gently, knowing how fragile and valuable it is.

Some nights, when my eyes refuse to close, I just watch her sleep. I wonder what dreams are visiting her and hope they’re kind. Her question echoes in my head, what would my life be without her? The answer feels like a hole I can’t look into long for fear of falling in. The tears come, and I let them fall, because the truth is I know she won’t always be here. One day, she’ll fade from my world, and I’ll be left holding the shape of her in memory.

But then I wipe my eyes, kiss the warmth of her sleeping forehead, and wrap my arms around her again. Because tonight, this one small night, her breath is steady, her body is close, and her love is still mine. And for this moment, that is enough.

The Actress- A modern day castle romance

He dreamed of a woman made of moonlight and mortal skin. 

A queen destined to rule beside him in the fortress he called home.

To others, it was only a house carved of stone and shadow. To him it was a castle built for love eternal and a place where his .

Her pulse raced as she read his words glowing on her screen. “It’s so romantic! I’m crying!?” she gasped, tears streaking her cheeks like silver thread. With trembling hands, she typed, “Are you for real?”  

“I am,” came the answer, simple and absolute.

Her next message struck like a vow: “To be loved so completely and cherished so amazingly is a dream all girls want. You are incredible—your words are like silk.”

What began as pixels and poetry became a storm of longing. Across hundreds of miles, they clung to a single thread of faith until distance itself broke beneath the weight of desire. Standing in a lonely parking lot, he whispered into his phone a goodbye through tears. She stood behind her office building, doing the same. Then came her final text, “I can’t let it end this way! I’m coming to see you.”  

He laughed and wept at once, joy and sorrow twined like a curse and a blessing.

Two days later, she stood beneath the stone staircase of his castle. When their eyes met, the world stilled. The kiss that followed was slow, certain, and ruinous. Together they crossed the threshold, losing themselves to passion heavy as prayer. He carried her through dim corridors to chambers crowned by a tower; her hair smelled of sunlight, her skin glowed like rare silk on fire. Beneath his hands she trembled; half goddess, half storm.

Later, while she lay sleeping, he sat beside her in silence. She looked like peace dressed in mortal form, too beautiful to last. Treasure this, he thought, for she leaves tomorrow. And though she promised to return, his heart already knew how dreams dissolve with the dawn.

But return she did. Days blurred into months of laughter, of whispered secrets in candlelight. He met her family, walked in the bubble of her world as she once walked his. He told her he loved her; she said nothing. Still haunted by the ghost of an old wound. Yet her presence painted life back into the castle’s cold walls.

On New Year’s night, the massive city glittered beneath them like a reflection of heaven.  

“So shall we have our talk?” he asked softly.  

“What talk?” she answered, feigning ignorance.  

“The talk about how we’ll make this work.”  

“I’m fine with things like they are. I see us married in a year or two.”  

He smiled and believed her.

Then, without warning, her warmth faded.  

“I’m not ready for a relationship,” she said one evening, her voice stripped of the soul he’d come to know.  

He dropped to his knees in the dining hall; his cathedral of emptiness crying out, “Why!?” But no answer came. Only silence thick as fog, and the sound of her absence echoing through the stone chambers where she’d once breathed his name.

Now each night he stands again beneath the stair where she first appeared, watching the horizon bleed into dusk. Was she ever real, or only a specter drawn to play his muse until love demanded truth? Perhaps she was no queen at all, but an actress reciting lines from a script he wrote in innocence.

Still he waits; not for her return but this time for the one who will not fear the crown. 

The woman bold and fierce enough to walk through the castle gates and write the next chapter with her own hand.