Not all the stories begun when I was born are still being told, but some are, some still are; that is why I can still rise in the morning, the endings still unknowable, everything, almost, still possible.
In a dream my skin melted, exposing wet organs and dry bones. When I woke the bed was an ocean of failed flesh, and you were gone, a note on your dry pillow a confession of the deceit you had made me a part of, and the name I knew you by was not your own.
She washed her hair in the moisture present in the air, and danced to the music of stars colliding in distances beyond sight. I almost had the chance to love her, but failed in some way I did not entirely understand, her heart speaking in languages I could not grasp, though the words were decipherable, the emotions recognizable. Decades have passed since I last saw her, a distance of time more felt than seen, and I wonder where I fit in her memory, if I fit anywhere at all, this man who wished to love her but could not, for reasons he still cannot understand.
Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, Flights, The Blue Nib and Poetry Wales. His play ‘Wall’ received a rehearsed reading as part of Druid Theatre’s Druid Debuts 2020.
He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.
His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com