Olga's Poetry & Thoughts

Waves lapping on the sandy shoreline Grains of sand stuck to the bottom of my feet Developing a slight sunburn on the back of my neck And on the side of my arms Instantly cooled off as I heal my wounds in the lake Not just the burns, but also the stress, the internal chaos My senses acute to the extreme As if in a dream I can taste the oxygen streaming out of the trees I can hear the breeze I can hear a cricket from a mile away And a fat cat purring on a windowsill in a house across the lake If only I could retire permanently in summer Swim in sangria parties As the days swim into each other 'Til I forget whether it's Sunday, Tuesday, or a Statutory Holiday This is the luxury that has been granted to me this summer Wasting time, chasing time, doesn't matter Time has retired, too

Here at honeymooners anonymous, we welcome people coming from every stage of lustful self-destruction. We particularly aim to help those who are addicted to the honeymoon phase. Yes, addicted. And pills can't fix it. Because when you first meet a person and their lips taste like honey, you assume that they must always taste like honey, that you and them will be in a stasis, a trance, a tasty eclair filled with a never-ending flow of creamy love. But one day your beau eats onions. No longer tasting like sweet sugar, you stop, re-evaluate. Why settle for onion breath when there are honeys buzzing all around you? The full moon comes ever so soon, and before you know it your love is gone too.  Every full moon you transform, like a werewolf, from a man to a rabid creature.  On the hunt, on the prowl, so here you are. Seeking perfection. An immaculate pair of hands to hold, fingernails trimmed long but not too long, French manicure and Italian perfume. Perfection. Milky