She said she took the measure. But it came a little short.

It sounded much like confidence. Without the backing or support.

You know I had the warning. It was right there on my tongue.

But she wasn’t much on listening. So, no words were spoke or sung.

I was in the mood for silence . You could say all words were moot.

And she had that look in her eyes. If she had a gun, she’d shoot.

Sometimes, it’s just easier to turn and walk away.

To be the bigger person and get to live another day.

The movie has no soundtrack.

That was playing in my head.

The theme was for the living.

The plot was for the dead.

It’s a story of hereafter.

Like the myths a child’s told.

Equal portions tears and laughter.

You get the girl but not the gold.

The Sunday rains came early.

Damp Sidewalks Saturday night.

The stylish got out umbrellas.

To see the brawl tween left and right.

The jabs that started early.

Are more for show, dramatic flair.

The internet is all the rage.

With so much noise so contraire.

There’s a shortage here on blue dye.

And the one that makes hair green.

All the battle plans have strategies.

That don’t offend or seem too mean.

I went home and locked the castle.

In fact, I never left the moat.

I just fired up the drawbridge.

And just let those voices shout.

She was an unusually beautiful woman, with long black straight hair and olive skin, somewhere between 30 and 40, with agitated and insistent eyes.

She said that she grew up on a farm in Vietnam and that she was the middle child of 5 and that they grew up poor and that she lives in the moment and not in the past.

I knew I had to have her. The feeling swept over me like a tsunami at a flood in some strange exotic locale where palm trees sway in the breeze. I am focused, and the world is on fire, everywhere except for me and mine.

UPDATE:

Wife

‘Tolkien’s Night ‘ by Paul Fournier 2001 Monotype- Pastel & Acrylic on Paper. 32″×24″

It’s high stress all this loving.

Heart beating hard now triple timed.

I’ve been parked now on the off-ramp.

In those shadows less than kind.

She’s been worried about high flying.

I don’t fret about those fears.

Riding rough and sick of trying.

Now stop crying, faking tears.

I’ve been writing a new chorus.

I’ve been looking for fresh chords.

Rich man drives fast now in a taxi.

Passing poor men in their Fords.

We all are walking in cold shadows.

Under blue skies filled with rain.

I am quiet, no more promise.

I will let you live your pain.

There’s a lesson if you listen.

To a voice that lives inside.

Telling me that it’s not over.

Doesn’t care how hard you cried.

I am nothing if not present.

And it’s always been that score.

Even when I couldn’t see.

When my back was at the door.

I hear distant sounding music.

Played by someone who was on tour.

Someone who can be that wise.

To know how and why and more.

In those times, I need to listen.

To those who came before.

Sometimes, I just need to be.

In the draft of troubadour.

I was tired when I woke up.

I guess now that’s just the norm.

I was up to something different.

When I found shelter from the storm.

Time is fleeting, not illusions.

On my face, you see the strain.

Where once were lines of laughter.

Are now harder to explain.

August swung with beauty.

At a world so tired and torn.

Warm winds beat back the rains.

And I slept in past the morn.

I was dreaming about something.

That was lodged inside my head.

Now I don’t know what that was.

So I think of you instead.

Nhien brings me finer things.

Like grace and smiles warm.

Like, no August that I remember.

She’s my shelter from the storm.