love, as it should be…

She sits on the edge of her seat, listening to his words.  Her mind easily becomes distracted by the pain tripping into her heart.  Such a beautiful soul – so strong, so caring, so protective, so lighthearted; to be slowly torn down, disintegrating and decaying into something foreign; unrecognizable.  His laughing brown eyes are being replaced by a cold wariness that seems beyond his control, frightening her.

 She doesn’t know where he is – the shadows surrounding him are unfamiliar to her.  She hears whispers of their evils, occasionally stumbling across the dulled hopes they leave in their wake – but she doesn’t understand, she can’t understand.  He makes new friends, as he calls them – they both know better.  For these new figures do not yearn for his safety as she does.  They do not smile when he is happy, stress when he is sad.  Most certainly they do not cry when he is in pain.  She wonders if they feel – if they feel anything.  Do they strive for numbness?  Her heart aches when she considers her dear boy blending into this black hole.  Her eyes moisten when she realizes that he is already almost there.

 A seeming panic overcomes here, although impending doom seems rather more appropriate, screams the back of her mind.  She tries to recall the last time his words were not laced with resignation, and all she can find is one moment where she was granted a fleeting glimpse of the man she cares for.  Blissful though the frame itself makes her heart feel, it is immediately shattered and swept aside by the realization that his words and his touch had been directed not at his own soul, but at her own.  It would appear as though the only aspirations left in his weakening heart are those set for his family; for his family, and for her.  Blind as he is, he cannot see that their hopes and desires are all revolving around his safety, if not his happiness.

 Love, not as it is, but as it was, and as it should be, is all they have left – the fragile rope seemingly keeping his bleak self alive – if not well. 

atlanta, she wrote

When you were a consistent part of my life – that was the first time I’ve ever felt any sense of peace.  The nights when I heard your voice were the only nights I can remember sleeping without having nightmares, or disturbing dreams about twisted realities.  Hearing your voice, and opening myself up to you was like a concentrated version of the feeling the ocean has always given me.

You were my ocean.

You were my ocean.  And like water, you were consistent, and soothing, and strong, and unbelievably beautiful.  And you made me feel all of those things, for the first time in my life.

But, I wonder where the fire was.  Would I feel it if I touched your face?  Would I feel it if your hand were to rest on the small of my back?  Would we have found a way to entwine water and fire?

I don’t know.

L told me that I deserve ecstatic happy, not just the peace that you brought me.  But how do I know you couldn’t have brought me ecstatic happy?  How do I know that if I were to breathe your air, touch your face, and feel your hand on my back, that I wouldn’t be ecstatically happy?

I don’t know.

And not knowing, is killing me.

I miss your voice.  I miss your laugh.  I miss your strength.  I miss your understanding.  I miss your wisdom.  I miss the happiness you held in the smallest things.  I miss hearing your smile.  I miss the feeling in the pit of my stomach when your name popped up on my caller id.

I miss you.

I just, fucking miss you.

Stumbling, Is Not Falling

I ran a thousand miles to catch my breath, to prove to you I’d never swallow your certainty.  I held my breath much longer than you.  I held my breath, but I never turned blue.  I wanted to show you how beautiful you are.  You, not me.  You’re not like me at all.  Sometimes, I wish you’d look at the air around you, so beautiful.  The breeze fills my eyes with belief.  But you won’t see it, you won’t spare the wind your time, the air isn’t something that concerns you.  You don’t waste your time with reckless ideals, you don’t waste time with my fanciful beliefs – you don’t waste time.

 

I wish you could waste time with me.

 

I like looking at you, at your eyes, into your tarnished soul.  I do believe you’re the muse of finding pleasure within pain.  I always notice the shadows – your shadows.  I wonder how you sleep at night, with masses of shadow weighing down your eyes.  I wonder how you open your eyes in the morning.  Does the morning sun lend you any relief?  Does it help hinder the shadows from overtaking your playful smile?  Or are you shadows braver than mine?  Do they hold your hand throughout the day, or do you push them away?  Are you frightened of your shadows, scared of the future they may bring you?  I’d like to meet your shadows, my dear.  They’re intriguing, but not like watching a car accident.  My eyes seek them, as a child seeks their parents love.  I wish I could comfort them, as you’ve comforted me.  I wish I could fix their hurt, touch their faces, whisper their eyes closed at night.  I want them to know relief, I want them to know that you are not their enemy.  I want them to love you, so that they can leave you.  I want them to leave you, but I don’t want you to be alone.  I don’t want you to be alone.

 

I want to waste time with you.

 

If I said it to you now, would you understand?  Would you believe?  I wonder if you would even hear the sound escaping from my lips.  If I say it now, can you forget the words for me?  Could you take them away from me, hold them close, keep them safe – make me forget.  Would you store them away for the winter season, let them recuperate?  When spring comes, and the snow melts, taking away your icy demeanor once more, would you gift me with my words?  Could you make me believe they were your own, made by you for me?  Could you?  Would you?  Is that something you can promise me?

 

I will promise to waste time with you, if you’d like.

 

What are you, dear?  I’ve truly never seen anything like you – never heard, or tasted, or felt, or smelt the pure strength you radiate.  You’re beautiful, without a doubt.  You don’t have doubts, I know.  Such certainty is intoxicating, addicting.  I would like to see you stumble, scratch your hands, bruise your knees.  If you fell, I could watch you stand back up.  But you would understand my eyes, then.  You would hear me smile through my frown, and you would understand.  Maybe then you would waste some time; watch the wind.  I’d like that.  Because I like you, whatever you are.  Do you?  You must, you’ve been known to know it all.  Always an answer, effortless as dust.

 

I am going to ask you to waste your time.

 

I will ask, you’ll see.  You’ll see my smile fight my countenance.  You’ll see my eyes light your face.  I will ask you a question, and you will understand.  But I won’t as you now.  No, not now.  My dear, you have a beautiful soul.  But you’ve so many shadows, and you haven’t learnt their names.  They will be your friends one day, you’ll choose them as family.  One day, but not today.  Because today, today you are too certain.  Your footing is too sure.  No, you won’t stumble today.  So today I will be silent.  And maybe you will stumble, maybe you will fall.  And maybe once you do, you will seek me out.  I will wait, I promise. I promise you.

 

I hope you stumble really soon.