Thomas McKelvey

Whispers trail behind me as I walk,
Hands outstretched, clutching little boxes.
'This one for your thoughts, this for your dreams,
That for the pain you cannot show.'
...

Congratulations on purchasing your Soul First Aid Kit. While this kit is useful in emergencies, don't use this as a replacement for definitive care from a trained professional caregiver.
In case of emergency, seek professional help.

Included in this kit are necessities for survival of the soul on a daily basis, however, these are provided as a supplement and are not intended to replace your soul's regular source of daily needs. Please find that this kit includes:
...

Her scent still lingers,
like an accusing vine,

Wrapping itself mercilessly
...

I used to dream,
nightmares in the night
about the world's end,
afraid that I would wake
...

I press down
desperately,
dragging my innermost self
across the page,
...

I want a kiss
that makes me
crazy,
desperate for your lips.
...

You see me like a needle's prick,
A jolt in your constructed bliss.
Do you crave me, or just the dream,
A fantasy you've built, it seems?
...

I have been told, that
ghosts appear, in liminal spaces,
the tiny places
where you're neither here,
...

I breathe heartache,
I bleed poetry
...

what once was mine
but always yours,
beats in my chest,
an aching tome
...

Amidst the Cherry Blossoms,
She loses herself,
Looking at the sky
Through the highest branches.
...

My soul is being crushed, my spirit burdened and strained,
This world is pressing, squeezing me,
So I run into the fields, into the woods,
Finding nourishment in silence and muted tones.
...

I thought of you, again.

Sometimes I feel good enough,
sometimes, I can't breathe.
...

Barefoot, toes pointed skyward like heels in sand,
she gathers her hair, twists it in a simple command.
Backwards she walks, the ocean vast and cool,
pale waves like ghosts beneath the moon's soft rule.
...

You trace my back with your fingertips,

All the days that used to be, standing tall between us, just history, like scars in my skin.
...

Dearest Laura,
There's something strangely fleeting about this present moment, isn't there? Yet, here it is, captured in a forgotten photo, trapped within the fading whispers of cellulose. Your eyes, once pools of gentle sublimity, now appear as muted moons through the haze of time.
The picture jolts a memory awake, a memory sharp as a shard of glass. It throws me back to that night, when the truth of our connection settled in my heart - a love that bloomed only on one side. You were, and always would be, a dear friend, a source of unwavering support. But the ache for something more, something beyond the boundaries of friendship, lingered unrequited.
I can't recall why I took that photo, or why I held onto it for so long. Perhaps it was a silent testament to a fleeting dream. Now, unearthed from the dusty corners of forgotten boxes, your placid gaze unlocks a flood of memories - the scent of spring blossoms mingling with fresh rain, the nervous anticipation that thrummed in my veins. It was the night you accepted my invitation to the dance, a night etched in both joy and sadness.
...

The little red fox froze, momentarily distracted. Her ears, perched precariously forward, twitched incessantly, straining for the faintest sound. She padded softly across the granular forest floor, a mosaic of snow and moss. Her eyes darted around like a hummingbird flitting between blossoms before she nervously trotted into the icy fog. It snaked down the mountainside, swirling around the trees like a ghostly river. Each footstep was a fading whisper, an echo of the one before, leaving a trail of shallow paw prints that vanished in the thawing earth.

Ahead, in a clearing bathed in pale sunlight, a herd of reindeer grazed. Their patchy coats steamed in the crisp air, their musty scent filling the fox's nostrils. It was a scene of sublime chaos as the herd shifted, hooves snapping like twigs on a frosty morning. The fox, unseen at the edge of the forest, felt a pang of excitement followed by a prickle of unease. The scent she craved, a familiar melody on the wind, had led her here, but now it was faint, almost lost.
...

Standing like sentinels,
Ancient and wise souls they hold,
The tall oaks behind my house unfold,
Swaying in the storm's cold grasp.
...

When I notice anxiety in my body, I feel...
like there's a bee bouncing around inside my chest, an agitated, stinging presence, keeping me from rest.
My arms are stiff fibers of grain, beaten and useless, on the threshing floor.
My mouth becomes filled with cotton and my head swims in the ether, drowning me in fear.
...

Her gaze is sublime,
as warm as porch lights,
inviting me into her embrace
...