All Posts By: Byron McCoy

               For a moment they spoke.  For a moment they shared, alive in communion and presence, ephemeral in the lasting.                 Spirit sensed, and something more, she moved to walk away in ascent of stairs behind.  He watched her as she went; body’s movement, bend of knee, raise of leg and tone of straighten in […]

               Gray and gloom filled mist-fall dawn, sodden sky burdened of the weight.  Without the light, without the gold, he felt melancholy take.                 He did not want the feel.                He turned his eyes from outer world and focused inward to surroundings of their home: open space, old furniture, rug before the hearth—and she.  […]

               Sunday eve, game began and life in the city died, energy and spirit drawn and lost to gamed distraction.  City’s life tuned out, hers tuned in through the hours of aloneness.                In home, she went to table in bring of journal and a pen.  Alone, at rest, she went within—into histories and distant […]

               For gift, he wrote a story in hand for her to see: a story of love, a story of lusts, intimacies of romance.                He wrote his spirit.  He wrote his heart, his essence as an art.                Complete, at table in center-heart and inner chamber of their home, he gave for her to […]

               He recognized the romance signs, accents of spirit in sensual’s color and adorn: layered dreaminess of cloth in fold upon itself, smooth skin of fruit in matching hue in rest upon; her wear of shirt, long sleeved and fitting, in sensual’s hue of same—striking in contrast to fair of skin at shirt’s collar and […]

               Is this the hill you want to die on?                No.                It’s not worth the fight, not worth the fires.                 And so it happens, one cedes the little acts intended as signs of love; actions and efforts met in critique, in criticism, but never recognized in compliment.                 One’s actions are repelled.  […]