Sincerely, Jennifer x

I was due another conference with my conscience,

but I was swarmed,

swimming in the summer’s bees and the last of my spring dreams,

living in August,

while April fought for my attention.

My conscience,

and the priest I paid to guard it had grown impatient,

sighing as I locked myself away in my castle,

coping as best I could,

with my crooners, and my capri sun cocktails.



They had seen it coming,

but had to let me lie in my bed,

beautifully, and painstakingly crafted by my own hand,

pillows, packed with my precious intentions,

hems, lined with all the roads to Hell I have taken.

I want to sleep,

but there is a pressing matter at my door.

I am ascending an escalator,

suddenly aware that heights frighten me.

I dream of a woman,

a vision,

coronated but casual,

curled lips and cool conversation,

hat brim, hung low over eyes that make me ache,

and a soft kiss, waiting for me, across the wastes.

The priest is praying for another charge,

charred to his core as I watch the doorstep and shake my head.

I would not do as I was told.

I would not do what I wanted.

I would wait,

wilting by the window,

waiting for the escalator to slow,

my conscience to quiet,

and my dream to draw closer.