Where the River Ends

Ludwig Wittgenstein once said, “That which we cannot speak about, we must pass over in silence.”

She whispered it from the canvas—the word that is my wife.
Indomitable

Leonardo da Vinci once said that “where the spirit does not work with the mind, there is no art.”

the way a man treats a woman is intangible. It is like a baton in a relay race—handed off and given from one to another.

Love might leave, but the memory of its touch and the hope of its return doesn’t. Ever.

She stretched it across my stomach, then searched higher, leaving it pressed flat across my heart.

“I don’t remember that.”
“Seeing as how you weren’t wearing any clothes, it’s an image I won’t soon forget.”

I sat in that room and realized that you can cut off a finger, cut off a hand, even cut off a leg, but if you take a woman’s breast, you are cutting more than just a body part.

“If those things clamp onto my toe, I’m coming out of this canoe.”

Because in the court of public of opinion, perception equals reality.