The art of back and forth.

Just another ordinary day; sitting all alone on the porch swing. Feels like a storm's brewing. The air's hot and sultry, like the touch of Jeb's warm sweet breath caressing the nape of my neck. Now what ever made me think of that? He's been gone over ten years now. Snapped up like a kidnap victim, in the prime of his life. God, it's going to be a long day.



flies buzzing round
busy little bastards
swat-



Wind's picking up. Would you look at that wheat over there in the field, swaying to and fro like it was in some kind of hypnotic trance; a summer waltz with no lyrics. Big as you were, Jeb, you were the smoothest dancer on the floor, all 310 lbs of you.

drifting in and out-
euphoric anesthetic
brings relief



Springs in this old swing must need oiling, sounds just like his muffled snoring. Such a foolish idea, thinking if he burrowed neath the covers it wouldn't keep me awake. The honeysuckle is just starting to bloom, but it can't hold a candle to that fancy bottle of Arimis still sitting on his dresser.



long winding road's
open invitation
to disappear