Finally, the bells ring
Telling me that my time is done.
My work for the day is over.
Yet something is missing.

I take my walk once again.
Still down the same path,
Still to the same destination.
The little hopes float through my mind.
Still something was missing.

I walk on with a smile on my face,
Happily talking with people I call friends.
But I know it's not real,
And I know that there's no point in hoping.
Things will never be the same.
I know what's missing

Here I am, at the usual spot
But you were no longer there.
Why don't you wait for me anymore?
Why can't we even look at each other?
And why do I still care?

I know what's missing.
I miss your smile, your gaze
I miss the sound of your voice
Our friendship is gone,
Without it I loose my smile.
And I loose you
It's you that I'm missing

I know you were there waiting for me
Yet I could not reach you
How could I be kept away from you?
I'm sorry that I'm not there...

This is one of those little moments
That I don't tell you about
When I truly need you with me
When I most desire your arms around me.
When I'm in so much pain
And there's no one to talk to.
And all I want to do is be with you.

But no, there's nothing but a mere thought.
Not a warm body to run to and hug
Or an empty shoulder waiting to be cried on…
Just a thought of you and wishing you were here.

Although I am sad and angry
And I try to calm myself down
Not a single tear is shed
No cries escape my mouth
All I want to do to release the pain
Is scream till I feel the emptiness.

Yet if I scream I'd draw attention
And the only one I want attention from
Is the only one that has never hurt me
All I want is you.

So forbidden to cry through my coldness
And afraid to scream through isolation
I sit thinking of my emotions
Left for the pain to settle
And rot my soul to nothing.
Why can't I reach you when I need you?

P. Christopher
Until...

better to be found somewhere, than to be lost everywhere...

I write to you from my house: In the country, in the county, to be
precise. As the the cars drive by, it blows a terrible wind, which
throws the pages of my notepad about. I find it ironic that I will
finish writing you this letter while sitting in the house because three
weeks ago, also here at the house, I had made a decision, which deeply
concerns you.

On that day, I had decided that my fondness and affection for you, which
I have long termed a "crush," had reached a point where I was beholden
to express it to you.

That decision still stands.

That's why I'm writing this letter to you.

Now, you may ask yourself - Isn't three weeks an awful long time not to
act on such a decision?

Well, to this I would reply that most great decisions in history have
not been enacted quickly. Rome was not conquered in a day. Nor was the
decision made by our forefathers to draft a constitution undertaken
hastily.

On the contrary, Kelly, they had a lengthy convention to discuss this
matter. And during this convention, may I remind you, they went through
no small trouble and expense to ensure that they were all present,
housed, fed, and well provided for as they endured such daring, and yet
rewarding, task. Haste could have ruined what became an incredible piece
of work.

I am too a cautious man, and I do not take hasty and ill-conceived
actions.

Nevertheless, there is a second, and perhaps overriding reason for my
tardiness in telling you about my feelings. It lies in a complex course
of events and circumstances that can perhaps best be summed up in one
word - momentum, or the lack thereof, if you prefer.

I will provide details:

Three weeks ago, I wished nothing more than to tell you that I found in
your eyes the brilliant green of a thousand suns, and found your
personality altogether agreeable, and further that I wished to be your,
shall we say, "someone."

I was alone then, and my resolution unique.

But when you were present, however, it was within a wider circle of
friends and I thought this matter better handled between only the two of
us. I had occasions to spirit away with you to a private location. But
for reasons, which now escape me, I chose not to do so.

Then you decided to go home and go to sleep. We had both imbibed some
alcohol, so I was in turn left drunk and lonely.

Having found the proper person, I was unable to alight on the proper
moment.

Nor was such problem unique to that one night. Quite the opposite, I
found myself stymied time and again. At many times you were not present,
at others I had other pressing considerations, and still other times
were just downright inopportune.

In fact, as often as I steeled my resolve in preparation to marching up
to you and forthrightly declaring that your very name caused my heart to
flutter, it was as often and on those occasions when you were
suspiciously absent.

Now though, I am preparing this letter so that our special moment will
be a matter of text and record, to be enjoyed at your convenience, and
available for nostalgic purposes in the future. This said, I will now
attempt to motivate and explain my "crush" by listing salient facts of
which I am aware about you:

a) Your physical appearance is such. You are tall, and some might say
statuesque. Your eyes: blue. Your hair: brown. Face: Angelic. Skin tone:
Light to no tan.

b) Your presence in a room lifts my spirit and I find that your smile,
which always presents itself in the right moment, makes you glow with
warmth and desirability.

c) There are unique characteristics to your speech. A tone of
condescending sarcasm, uniformly applied. A tendency to start sentences
with "Wait." Great variance in pitch and inflection, which has a
distinct but yet unmeasured correlation to variance in speed. A distinct
and charming laugh.

d) Your attitude towards me is such. I know that you consider my sense
of humor agreeable as you have expressed your appreciation of my jokes
on numerous occasions, and have uttered the expression, "Patrick is
really funny." When you enter a room, you make it a special point to
greet me, above all others. You consider me a "spazz," but in a good
manner, and similar to yourself in that respect.



Now, leaving aside any personal considerations, the primary obstacle to
a blissful union of souls is that you are three years younger than I
am.

However, I am not unduly concerned about this because, while such a
fusion would cut across convention, I find that one of your most
striking and attractive qualities is your strident unconventionality.

I, the undersigned, trust that this declaration of affection and amorous
intent will be received with great pleasure on your part, and await a
swift reply, which may hopefully lead to a successful series of
correspondences between our persons.

With great anticipation,
P. Christopher


Please note: I do not know a Kelly, just had to come up with a name for
the title.
Until...

Sorry guy's ( and gal's) I wrote this for a person I dealt with. maybe
wrong site
" My Bad"

So I return to you with words once again.

Oh, words. I have almost forgotten about them, being so long since I
last touched a pen, and felt a stationery resting quietly on my lap,
breathing slowly like my cigarette-plagued lungs, my tired body.

I write to you once again because I need to. You may disregard my words,
maybe toss this very letter in a garbage can or, if you have remained
conscientious, in a recycle bin somewhere.

Yes, please do that. For me.

Recycle my words for they must have developed a life of their own by
now, and should remain like that for eternity, carved in impressions and
memories of what we once were, of what we once believed in.

Life here in the city is different.

Nothing like what it used to be back home, when we used to role play our
fantasies and dreams during intense chocolate, sugar-driven afternoons
in front of a video game, or a VCR with an old class Z movie strangely
glowing from the narrow TV screen of your living room.

No lover, life is nothing like that here.

I know you blame me for having left, for having pursued a different
life, away from what we once planned, away from our childhood promises.
You might even think it is a sin to do what I did, despising something
so important as ourselves, as our golden relationship.

But it's too late now. I know.

Don't get me wrong, my dear, my beloved. I've always loved you. I've
always loved you so deeply, so intensely, much more than you will ever
be able to fathom or believe.

But it matters not. No longer.

I hear from my friends, who insists in reminding me of you, like I
needed anyone to do that for me, that you are now married, living in a
house in the suburbs. I had to gather a lot of strength to make this
letter happen. Collecting your new address, inquiring about your
whereabouts while pretending I was someone else, checking phone books
because I didn't want anyone to know that I was, indeed, trying to reach
you.

It's all silly, and selfish, I know.

But please, call it self-protection, call it something other than
selfishness. I beg you. I've had my share of bad lessons here, and I
didn't want you to judge me like everybody else did. Not you.
Especially not you.

I just wanted to say I love you. I truly do, with all my heart and soul,
with every single drop of blood left in my body. I truly love you, my
special friend, my only true lover, the one who treated me so kindly and
respectfully, so gently and friendly, the first woman who made me feel
like a man, the first woman who made me discover the pleasures of love,
the first and only woman I have lost my heart to.

I don't want you to think about this letter though. Please don't.
Pretend I never sent it. Pretend I never wrote it. Pretend this piece of
paper has never reached your hands, and I never really said what I've
just said.

I am writing because I wanted you to know how I feel. But I wouldn't
like you to spend any minute, any second rationalizing about this. There
is such a huge difference between acknowledging and interpreting. We
both know that very well.

I have drunk much more than I should tonight. I needed it. I didn't go
to work tonight. I couldn't. Working tonight would be too much to
endure, too difficult to bear, too huge a burden to carry. Not tonight.
This night is going to be our night, when I will dream of the chances
I've missed, and the love I once had and have now lost.


Don't be hurt.

Don't be sorry either.

I've chosen this life. It was my decision to make. I'm not begging for
either compassion or understanding. I'm only asking for someone to hear
me out, I'm asking for someone to listen to my words, to my personal
prayers, to my confession, like a priest, like a friend, like a lover
without pay.

You were my only true lover. The only one I can remember and miss, the
only one I still have the nerve to approach, talk, and open my heart to.

I don't want you to write back to me though. Please don't. I've left my
return address blank on the envelope you're holding. That's the way it
should be. I guess I would be embarrassed to receive a letter from you.

It sounds foolish to say such a thing because it sounds I am ashamed of
myself, of what I have done. I am not. But this letter is not the
moment, not the medium to discuss this. I just wanted you to know that I
still think of you. I still love you with deep-rooted feelings, even
though I will probably never see you again, never touch your face in the
dark, never hear your voice or laughter.

But it makes me feel good to spend the night home, hiding away from the
real world, encroached in my bedroom, and writing these words to you.

My confessions are my dreams, dear love.

Sleep well.

Don't think of me.
P. Christopher

so is it to long or is everone " SPEECHLESS" and not trying to be smart
or assinine.
Until...

Sue's face faded into the gray winter light of the sitting room. She
dozed in the armchair
that Ernie had bought for her on their fortieth anniversary. The room
was warm and quiet.
Outside it was snowing lightly.

At a quarter past one the mailman turned the corner onto South I Street.
He was behind on his route, not because of the snow, but because it was
Valentine's Day and there was more mail than usual. He passed Sue's
house without looking up. Twenty minutes later he climbed back into his
truck and drove off.

Sue stirred when she heard the mail truck pull away, then took off her
glasses and wipe her mouth and eyes with the handkerchief she always
carried in her sleeve. She pushed herself up using the arm of the chair
for support, straightened slowly and smoothed the lap of her dark green
housedress.

Her slippers made a soft, shuffling sound on the bare floor as she
walked to the kitchen. She stopped at the sink to wah the two dishes she
had left on the counter after lunch. Then she filled a plastic cup
halfway with water and took her pills. It was one forty-five.

There was a rocker in the sitting room by the front window. Sue eased
herself into it. In a half-hour the children would be passing by on
their way home from school. Sue waited, rocking and watching the snow.

The boys came first, as always, runnng and calling out things Sue could
not hear. Today they were making snowball as they went, throwing them at
one another. One snowball missed and smackd hard into Sue's window. She
jerked backward, and the rocker slipped off the edge of her oval rag
rug.

The girl dilly-dallied after the boys, in twos and threes, cupping their
mittened hands over their mouths and giggling. Sue wonder if they were
telling each other about the valentines they had received at school. One
pretty girl with long brown hair stopped and pointed to her face behind
the drapes, suddenly self-consious.

When she looked out again, the boys and girls were gone. It was cold by
the window, but she stayed there watching the snow conver the children's
footprints

A florist's truck turned onto South I Street. Sue followed it with her
eyes. It was moving slowly. Twice it stopped and started again. Then the
driver pulled up in front of Mrs. Simms house next door and parked.Who
would be sending Mrs. Simms flowers? Sue wondered. Her daughter in
Florida? Or her brother? No, her brother was very ill. It was probably
her daughter. How nice of her.

Flowers made Sue think of Ernie and, for a moment, she let the aching
memory fill her. Tomorrow was the fifteenth. Eight months since his
death.

The flower man was knocking at Mrs. Simms front door. He carried a long
white and green box and a clipboard. No one seemed to be answering. Of
course! It was Friday - Mrs. Simms quilted at the church on Friday
afternoons. The delivery man looked around, then started toward Sue's
house.

Sue shoved herself out of the rocker and stood close to the drapes. The
man knocked. Her hands trembled as she straightened her hair. She
reached her front hall on the third knock.

"Yes?" she said, peering around a slightly opened door. "Good afternoon,
ma'am," the man said loudly. "Would you take a delivery for your
neighbor?"

"Yes," Sue answered, pulling the door wide open. "Where would you like
me to put them?" the man asked politely as he strode in.

"In the kitchen, please. On the table." The man looked big to Sue. She
could hardly see his face between his green cap and full beard. Sue was
glad he left quickly, and she locked the door after him.

The box was as long as the kitchen table. Sophie drew near to it and
bent over to read the lettering: "The Added Touch in Frankton." The rich
smell of roses engulfed her. She closed her eyes and took slower
breaths, imagining yellow roses. Ernie had always chosen yellow. "To my
Angel Baby Princess," he would say, presenting the extravagant bouquet.
He would laugh delightedly, kiss her on the forehead, then take her
hands in his and sing to her "You Are The Love of My Life."

It's was five o'clock when Mrs. Simms knocked at Sue's front door. Sue
was still at the kitchen table. The flower box was now open though, and
she held the roses on her lap, swaying slightly and stroking the
delicate yellow petals. Mrs. Simms knocked again, but Sue did not hear
her, and after several minutes the neighbour left.

Sue rose a little while later, laying the flowers on the kitchen table.
Her cheeks were flushed. She dragged a stepstool across the kitchen
floor and lifted a white porcelain vase from the top corner cabinet.
Using a drinking glass, she filled the vase with water, then tenderly
arranged the roses and greens, and carried them into the sitting room.

She was smiling as she reached the middle of the room. She turned
slightly and began to dip and twirl in small slow circles. She stepped
lightly, gracefully, around the sitting room, into the kitchen, down the
hall, back again. She danced till her knees grew weak, and then she
dropped into the armchair and slept.

At a quarter past six, Sue awoke with a startle. Someone was knocking on
the back door this time. It was Mrs. Simms.

"Hello, Sue," Mrs. Simms said. "How are you? I knocked at five and was a
little worried when you didn't come. Were you napping?" She chattered as
she wiped her snowy boots on the welcome mat and stepped inside. "I just
hate snow, don't you? The radio says we might have six inches by
midnight, but you can never trust them, you know. Do you remember last
winter when they predicted four inches, and we hand twenty-one?
Twenty-one! And they said we'd have a mild winter this year. Ha! I don't
think it's been over zero in weeks. Do you know my gas bill was $263
last month? For my little house!"

Sue was only half-listening. She had remembered the roses suddenly and
was turning hot with shame. The empty flower box was behind her on the
kitchen table. What would she say to Mrs. Simms?

"I don't know how much longer I can keep paying the bills. If only
William, God bless him, had been as careful with money as your Ernest.
Ernest! Oh, good heavens! I almost forgot about the roses."
Sue's cheeks burned. She began to stammer an apology, stepping aside to
reveal the empty box.

"Oh, good," Mrs. Simms interrupted. "You put the roses in water. Then
you saw the card. I hope it didn't startle your to see Ernest's
handwriting. Ernest had asked me to bring yu the roses the first year,
so I could explain for him. He didn't want to alarm you. His 'Rose
Trust,' I think he called it. He arranged it with the florist last
Apirl. Such a good man, your Ernest..."

But Sue had stopped listening. Her heart was pounding as she picked up
the small white envelope she had missed earlier. It had been lying
beside the flower box all this time. With trembling hands, she removed
the card.

"To my Angel Baby Princess," it said. "I love you with all my heart. Try
to be happy when you think of me. Love, Ernie."
I won't argue
with my heart.

P. Christopher
Until...

The book is titled, "the letters" and has been reviewed by McGraw-Hill
and will be published the first of next year. I will explain and include
more later, but I hope that you all enjoy.
P. Christopher
Until...

Another excerpt from my book, just thought I would share it...

I stopped at the red light, and she quickly came to me, stooping against
the open window, her thin little arm reaching into my car, a small hand
in a shell-like fashion, waiting for me to drop in a coin. I looked
startled, I suppose. She was just a child, a child with a sweet long
face, a scrawny child with dirty, ragged clothes, a hungry child.

Can you spare some change? I need to buy food for my brother, she said,
pointing to the sidewalk, where a woman sat at the curb with a baby on
her lap. She looked desolate because that's what hunger does to you, it
takes away your strength, but, even worse, it steals your hope. Sir,
just a few coins, we really need milk for the baby.

I looked into her eyes, her young yet weary eyes, her lonely and
meaningful eyes, and wondered what she was thinking. I thought about how
many times she followed the same ritual, how many cars she approached
and how often she got turned down, and whatever kind of insults she had
to endure to make it through the day. I wondered what would become of
her, and of the baby swaddled in filthy pieces of fabric just across the
street. I felt responsible for them, and I don't know exactly why.

I gave her four quarters, which amount to one dollar. She thanked me and
smiled, looking accomplished, almost happy. She waved to the woman at
the sidewalk, the bills fluttering in the wind as her arms flailed in
satisfaction. She had hair flowing in her mouth now, but she didn't seem
to care. I thought, for a moment, that everything would be all right for
her, for the hungry baby who needed milk, and for the battered mother.

The light turned green, and somebody behind me promptly honked. The
little girl was now giving the money to the woman at the curb, who
quickly hid it inside her bra. For an instant, they looked like a
regular family having some time out, catching some sun. For a moment, I
pictured the baby on a fancy stroller, and the mother in a black dress,
walking down N I street in Elwood with a tiny black purse dangling from
her right elbow, and the little girl sporting a pink dotted dress, her
hair in one long braid sliding down her back.

The driver behind me honked again, and I stepped on the gas, following
the three of them through my rear view mirror. What is it that makes
this world so full of contrasts, Kelly? What is it that separates the
reality of that family sitting at the curb from the world fantasy I
imagined for them? It would be easy to say it's just money. It would be
even easier to call it luck, or the lack thereof, and it would be stupid
to downplay it by saying that, This is just the way things are supposed
to be.

I wonder if that family believes in God. I wonder if they have time to
believe, and, more to the point, if faith would have some, if any,
impact to minimize the hunger, the humiliation of having to peddle for
change from drivers-by.

Everyone tells me they prefer not to think about it because it is too
painful to imagine that family, and those shelter-less kids growing up
on the streets, and there's nothing that we can do to change the
situation. And that's what many of us do over here. We pretend, we
relinquish the responsibility of the problem, and delegate the arduous
job of finding a solution to someone else, like the government, or the
church, or, as they call it here, the authorities in charge.

And we move on, filling our days with our own problems, blaming our
misfortunes on the guy sitting in the next cubicle, and cursing the
crashed computer, or the server that was down, or the client, who is too
dumb to understand the web, or the advertisers, who curb our creativity.

In the end, I guess there's nothing wrong with that picture, except for
the fact that by thinking too much about ourselves we fail to remember
who we really are.

Be well.
P. Christopher
until...

But, Please remember that not everyone is the same
there are people that are real, and the pics are from my family and I
post some of them when I write.
I Do Not have a " Someone special", I just have a book I am completing
and thought I would share the joys that people seek out, so that maybe
One person may have a better day than before. See, It's about seeing
that people are happy instead of sad. Too much of that in the world
right now, So, I hope you all enjoy.
P. Christopher
Until...

and why would you say that karib

If I could have just one wish,
I would wish to wake up everyday
to the sound of your breath on my neck,
the warmth of your lips on my cheek,
the touch of your fingers on my skin,
and the feel of your heart beating with mine...
Knowing that I could never find that feeling
with anyone other than you.

A special world for you and me
A special bond one cannot see
It wraps us up in its cocoon
And holds us fiercely in its womb.

Its fingers spread like fine spun gold
Gently nestling us to the fold
Like silken thread it holds us fast
Bonds like this are meant to last.

And though at times a thread may break
A new one forms in its wake
To bind us closer and keep us strong
In a special world, where we belong.
P. Christopher
Until...

Because i see now...like i've never seen before...the blinders are
off...the eyes are wide...my heart is open...gut wrenching...and
horrible...a problem we caused...that we have to end...and i wonder...at
what cost...how many more will die...how many more will fight...how many
more will feel the unquenched disbelief at this new situation...this
situation that isn't exactly panning out like we might have imagined...i
here the small arms fire...i feel the explosions...the 'war' has slapped
me in the face everyday that i woke up here...it has affected me...it
will continue to affect for the rest of my life...i know all to well
that people...iraqis...and americans...are dying everyday...i see the
smoke from the car bombs...i feel the hurt in my heart...

they are dying here...these people...humans...us...americans
i'de like to be home...in america...the country i love...the country
that gives me worth...the country that i would fight and die for to
protect...
it is sad but is true...this life is to hard for most soldiers loved
ones...and for some soldiers
there is no waiting loved one on the other side of the earth...or a
little apartment and a truck with 20 inch rims...there isn't an escape
back into a missed life, so we stay and fight.
remembering...
all gave some, some gave all...

P. Christopher
Until...

Very well spoken.
until...

Hello, Carolyn. I hope that you enjoy yourself here and make some very
wonderful friends.

txsgal, You know that you are "Great" people and everyone just wannts
to be around you because of your wit and charm. I like you answer. And
Ontario, You are a "good" man. Some things you say are far out there,
but you do have the smarts with you. I RESPECT that.

What if you had one(1) last day on this earth? What would you do? How
would you spend it?

so may I ask if the Distrust that you feel is justified or it is it
something that you feel in yourself, and just want to feel justified in
the way you are feeling
. i am not trying to be rude, just the question...

I am 4 you, I thank you man. And yes these are all pictures of my
family and I was born in Coker Creek, Tennessee.
I dont know you , but I feel that I do. I do know that you are good
people, see, I pay attention, and I know good when I see it.
P. Christopher
Until...