Separation hurts. The tide comes in. Her shadow a thousand tiny land crabs.
Crawl into the sea. One by one by one. The tide comes in. Who am I to grasp for shadows? Who am I to hold her back? Flesh on silhouette. Who am I to snuff flame for fear of bouncing light? Separation hurts. The sun comes in my window. Her eyes hovering about. Pangs, twangs, pinching nerves somewhere between my rib cage and my soul. Try. Fail. Try. Fail. Try. Tis all I can do to keep from drowning in the misery of inaction. Warm winds. Tobacco smoke. All of her. Smells. Dreams. An illusion? Surely I have not been chasing shadows through a maze? Surely there was someone there, on the other end? Surely. I’m not sure of anything anymore. Knowing the heart can seem so wrong for so long. Its soft murmuring of truths shadowed by the mind’s barrage of lies and half-truths. Writing helps a little bit, I suppose. A flume for my sorrows. Poured down ice and into the mouths of blank screens and ink cartridges. I knew better than to care so much. But it’s in my nature. Comes with the territory, babe. Shot myself in the mouth with that one. At least it was true. At least I’ve hidden behind what I really am--instead of what I wish I was. Every heartbreak is a lesson. I’ve stood taller this time ‘round. Still my knees are a little shaky. Still I contemplate destroying the scene around me. Still I want to drag the world down to my wallowing hole. At least this time I’m aware, I suppose. At least this time I saw it coming. And didn’t pretend I didn’t. How many words did I repeat these past few months? Certainly Love never slipped too often. Not through my mouth, perhaps. My eyes, however, are a different story. If I could dam the rift that lay between my eyes and soul Say then might I remain Mystery and Cold. All these words are but a cover. A hot salve. Temporary. Enough. Maybe I should go to work. Maybe the day to day will drown the night that’s followed me here. I took the pleasure for the pleasure and so now I drink the bitter end--the sediment at the bottom of our decanter. This is foolish. Yet I know no other way. Dregs, drags, dredging. Lather me up and slip me into your orifices until you are full on my lust. My poetry. Devour these attentions for which I am prone to spill, when pressure by soft bosoms wraps around my hilt. Rhymes are escaping. Running. It’s all I can do not to flee the State. This State. This moment of reflection and boiling water. I’d like to hope for better days, for the fairy tale resolution to this dispute. Is this old age or wisdom that prevents such wanton wishes? Is jaded the same as
learned? The problem with naivety is also it’s allure. So much is softer in it’s light. Nights are longer in the arms of lovers. Days are shorter when they’re gone. I’d give up the carnal for the sage. If only to hold my lips against hers one...moment...longer. Perhaps I should have eaten dinner? But doubts are dangerous seeds and I’ve taken that road before.