I remember her last words. The million hellos were erased by a midnight good bye. Once we entwined our lives and now in my secret place. A million fingerprints, leftover reminders. I painted on her tender  and raw skin, love words. Over and over till they became meaningless. Somehow the love words made her bleed and I had to sewed her-up. 

I remember on a liar’s moon, I removed her the stitches and I kissed the bluest scars and the wounds reopened. She told me. So cold, I am. I am like a Alaska long Winter. You wasted your fingers and hands on my dead skin. Once you excited my body and mind. You were my 3 am ride, my 3 am company. We tried to fulfill a need always rising and falling like a Winter Pacific storm. I told you, I was a heartache waiting to be born…

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Pretty face, don’t mean pretty heart…


Pretty face, don’t mean pretty heart…..

She was so damn pretty and she moved through life like a panther in the free forest on the hunt.
Her eyes were black as coal and her voice sweeter than the Michigan Fall honey. She told me. “Blind folks need love and kiss. They believe love is forever. The soulmate fantasy leave you lonely, waiting and dead in heart. Don’t believe in outer appearance. Pretty does, sometimes is pretty not. Be brave and careless, better to eat life-up without seeking perfect love and perfect kiss. If you want little, you won’t be disappointed.”

I loved her eyes. Cold and relentless and I loved her tantalizing tender voice. I loved her truthful and honest words. She told me. “Pretty face, don’t mean pretty heart. Sometime women are killers, murderers of love and kindness. They will leave you bloody and dying without a second of…

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The intoxicating kiss..


 The intoxicating kiss….

The wine, the songs and the foolishness.
These three temptations make me shred my wisdom and my logic.
Her intoxication kiss made me know great madness and I needed to  look at her beautiful face and
I needed to hear her voice.

She wrapped her tender arms around me and she create a tangle web.
She made the sane man run away from secure love and life.
Beautiful Daniela danced for me at the midnight hour.

Demon, angel, muse or deadly siren?
I fell into her arms willingly.
I knew she were a Gypsy woman who needed everything and nothing.

I went to the Gypsy card reader and she spread the card on the glass table.
The pretty  Gypsy lady, she read the cards and she told me.
Run Johnnie, run Johnnie.
You are dancing with the devil.
If you don’t, she will teach you tears.

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Fire So Soft – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon



“Softly the evening came with the sunset.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Fire So Soft

The sun, now tired, slowly
declined, but desired to paint
a masterpiece, brushing a glow
that kissed the river's silken skin
with fire so soft it burned beauty
into such a feeling where words
of meaning were meaningless,
could never be offered as pale 
praise and were quietly swallowed
in favour of receiving, knowing 
there was nothing I could add.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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It was not always like matches and wildfires,
but their love…
was like peaceful sleep
after a long hard day,
like sunrise after a dark storm,
fresh, like the smell of flowers that lingered,
long after one walked away,
their love was like answers
to questions of the heart.

poetry and image copyright neha 2021

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