Spring

Warm Body

Time can never erase the taste, the touch,

the heat of smooth, soft skin. My fingertips

ached to pull him closer. Hands felt my hips,

urging me onward, still forward. So much

depends upon simple contact, and such

sweet, plum caresses from succulent lips.

But this is not quite right. Fantasy rips

and he is not my warmth, the one I clutch.

Not lover, friend, my partner strong and bold,

who brings me to my sweetest, perfect form.

He is a stranger, a poor substitution,

an improper plaster cast, hard and cold.

He could never mold to your humor or charm.

You are gone, he is just an illusion.

Cold Shoulder

Sugared words drip from

sultry lips, making his threshold

glow with the red heat of

inner fire as he opens the door

to the jasmine scent in the evening chill.

She is the one from before.

May I come in?

He thinks it’s better she didn’t.

Jezebel in a cashmere sweater

pouts. I thought you left her.

The fire winks out.

New Years Eve - Rachel Schneider

Medium:

Prismacolor Pencils and Sharpie on Paper

Glass Bottle Wrapped in Cloth - Rachel Schneider

Medium:

Graphite on Bristol Paper

A Reaction in Four Parts

When I asked if this was what you wanted,

you wouldn’t give an answer. The cancer

of uncertainty gnaws at my muddled

mind as I look back and wonder if all

this time was just a game when I saw you

in goodnights and birthdays and holidays

and futures. What sutures do you use to

close the wounds of unanswered thoughts? Perhaps

the good is lost in the bitter flavor.

  When I asked if this was what you wanted,

you responded with anger. A stranger

emerged, unwilling to talk, to give a

glimpse of what was beyond the steely stare.

I’d praise you for your perseverance, your

unwavering commitment to this last

decision, if only I could know my

words would even be heard. No pity in

your words, to make letting go easier.

  When I asked if this was what you wanted,

there was sadness in your tone, screaming through

the words that reluctantly emerged. I

could feel that you felt the pain that you dealt,

even as you said it didn’t matter.

Your subtle silences spoke volumes. This

was special. We were special. But that can’t

matter when you know that special can not

overcome unconcluded history.

  When I asked if this was what you wanted,

you wouldn’t give an answer, because the

answer is clear: what we must do is not

always what we want.

Dusty Morning

At least I told the truth, and yet

the truth of the matter is that none of it matters.

Reasons why, what made it die, the goodbyes-

I cry but none of the questions wash away.

It just makes mud, mudding up my mind,

making me wonder more and more: why?

I wish I had that answer.

I wish you had that answer.

I wish, as you sat there in your leather jacket

with no shirt, and me underdressed

in faded pajamas and old jeans,

I wish you could have said- or maybe I don’t.

To accept that it happened is

a challenge alone. To know why is more than

I could stand. Who, what, when, and where:

these will have to do. I’ll never accept a reason

why you can’t forgive me the way I forgave you.

Beauty from the Beast

Sadness was my gut reaction

when I saw her picture in your wallet.

She: more beautiful than me,

eyes brighter than mine,

her smile sweet, pure honey.

But behind my sadness came joy.

Joy that you have someone so beautiful,

someone to love and to love you

as once upon a time I did.  What we became was

ugly, but it taught us life. We were not a waste.

But as our beautiful flowers bloomed,

we came to see we could not share the sun.

Our petals grew shriveled and brown,

choked by the harsh sting of broken promises,

of life and truth, and what is not meant to be.

He is now my light, and she is now your fire,

and as we grow apart we will grow closer to them,

and they will and lift us up toward the sun, and

we will be alive. Apart, we will grow to be

the beauty that we now know we can be.

Lust Song

Is that love in your eyes, or are you just happy to

see me? Me, naked above you, beneath you,

around you. My bible lies open in the backseat,

Samson and Delilah. My legs clench your waist,

pulling you closer, deeper, further into this

stark truth: there’s no hiding from you now.

Every inch of me bare, my ugly flaws and

rosy lies, sketched across my inner thighs.

Am I good for a game? Love and sex are not

the same. There’s nothing to see here past

the hills and valleys of dimples and curves.