“Hello Dear Visitor,” “Puddles Caressing My Skin” and “We’re Just Cordial Friends”

“Hello Dear Visitor,” “Puddles Caressing My Skin” and “We’re Just Cordial Friends”

Hello Dear Visitor

I deserted a place labeled as a home,

with outlets popping out from their cables,

an oven that I needed to light manually,

and a floral couch that creaked no matter the weight put onto it.

I still have that picture of you resting softly,

sinking into the cushions,

with a long tear at the top that I know I should have stitched,

but I was too sluggish.

This home,

where I opened the door after ten hour days with sopping wet hair,

you could take one look at me and exclaim – “She looks like she swam in a pool of sweat.”

Brown paper bags filled with dinner most days laid crinkled in the shiny aqua purse I crammed it into,

the grease smell sunk into the cloth inside,

but this was routine and I needed to survive.

So I did.

There are days I long to go back for a few seconds to say hello,

while we watch the same films over and over on DVD.

I was too poor to afford cable.

That isn’t quite possible,

so I wait until my body shuts down for the evening,

to meet you at a designated hour in my REM sleep.

We will meet like the sun and moon as best friends,

arising in a pond of dampness on my face because it felt so real.

The visiting hour has concluded.

Puddles Caressing My Skin

There’s a trail I’ve been shifting along for quite some time.

Hands reaching out,

soft droplets of water pet my skin.

Intuition told me that I should have brought an umbrella,

but I am not a prepared person.

Breathing in the delicate smell,

the sensation tickles my nostrils.

I shift my eyes shut.

Feeling the puddles under my feet,

shoes are soaked,

squishing my toes in-between wet dirty socks,

I’m shivering.


I am here,


City streets are silent,

without another entity in sight.

The only time I feel anything –

is now.

We’re Just Cordial Friends

Crashing into piles of colorful leaves,

I smile so brightly,

like a mirror sitting in the sun at the perfect angle.

The universe pauses,

wanting to give me some sort of message.

Is this bliss?

An emotion I did not get along with,

but we were cordial friends.

The wind is rustling,

leaves are crunching with each shift of your feet.

It sounds like the way your eyes light up,

when you stare in wonder at magic.

Hearing my grandmother calling my name,

I zip my mouth shut as to not cause aggression,

oh how I wish I could have spoken to you.

About the Author

Elizabeth Novotny

Elizabeth Novotny is a poet from Wisconsin. Her work has appeared in Wingless Dreamer and she has a piece forthcoming to Apricity Magazine.