I’m slowly forgetting the sound of your voice, the curve of your lips. I’m slowly forgetting the feeling of your arm hair brushing just slightly against mine. And with it, all these small inconsequential memories. I’m slowly losing interest in everything. I don’t listen really, I don’t listen to anything or anyone. Nothing excites me anymore, no small sparks of passion to keep me on my feet throughout the day. I don’t even really enjoy music either, not like I once did. The sound of it leaves me feeling, a tad bit numb. All I can do is write words, words that when formed together aren’t even good enough to be typed onto a blank page. But that’s all that’s left, a vacant space, a hole. I often wonder why it has come to this. It’s no one’s fault, but my own really..Why did I allow myself to fall in? Why must all beautiful things end in tragedy? Why must they end at all? For what is a writer without beauty? For what is a poet without tragedy?
For a poet without a muse, no longer has a reason to write.
But write they must.
And I will,
even if it means, no longer writing for you.
He stares into the mirror. Unable to recognize the man, who looks back at him. The joke. Dreary eyed, the skin of his eyelids so thin, they appear transparent. His lips stretched and black, form a smile curling to the tips of his ear lobes. His eerie laugh transitions from laughter to a painful screech, lastly fading into a soft distorted whimper. He knows that he must wipe his tears. “The show must go on.” He muttered. He applies the chalk white powder onto his already dried, lifeless skin. Smearing black circles around his eyes and red paint onto his lips. He smiles, remembering a time when his teeth were not rotten and his spirit was youthful, filled with life and passion. Those days are long gone now. A red curtain behind him is all that lies between him and the act. He exits onto the stage, filled with fraudulent laughter. The audience loves it, but does he?
We made love on our library floor.
With all of them watching.
Hemingway and Bukowski thought, I was the most ferocious woman.
Where as Shakespeare and Fitzgerald whispered of how well you performed.
While Poe thought of all the dreadful things that might happen, if we ever decided to let go.
It was only Dickinson, who understood why.
So many of the best moments only happen, every once in a while.
No matter how hard we try, to capture the feeling in a poem or a photograph.
And just as she,
These thoughts, these feelings
Are intended for none, although seen by many.
There are no thunderstorms in California.
Oh, how I adore the smell of the wet warm earth after a storm. How I would wait to hear thunderous crackle, to see the sparks forged from the sky. But nothing.
There are no thunderstorms in California.
Sometimes, I close my eyes and imagine your sound. I imagine the raindrops that would gently kiss my skin, opening my pores in the most delightful way. I would jump, puddle to puddle racing through the tall grass. Just me and the elements. Once the lightning struck, I would then run into a small stone home. Where it would be warm inside from the fireplace, just in the living room. What a perfect mixture of smoked wood and petrichor. If you open all the windows, you could get a view of the long stretch of land, never ending. Silently, I would watch as the Heavens struck Earth.
There are no thunderstorms in California, but when I close my eyes anything is possible.
Warm summer evenings, with planes that hover in the sky. How subtle, it fades from pastel blue to a saturated shade of pink. If you are still enough, you can feel the light breeze. It’s instantaneous, but like the day, still warm. Hummingbirds chase one another around a nearby tree. The wind picks up its pace and blows more heavily. There are so many sounds, some can be described and some can’t. Now in this moment, I realize that this could be it, the answer I’ve been searching for. In this life, everything has a name and with it a description, label or category. But isn’t there a beauty in things that can’t be describe, a sort of peace in the balance of two things, contrary. Different, but the same, broken, but whole, radiant, but melancholy. I wonder, if some things aren’t meant to be defined, if some things need no explanation? If some things just simply are? I am now sitting here, on this patio watching the sky slowly transition from day to night. The wind now sings, a slightly chilled tune and I have been trying to figure out, just how to describe this feeling. All that comes to mind is everything that surrounds me. I sit, I type, attempting to write, but I still know not the words to describe it. And truthfully, I think I’m fine with that. Let it manifest and let it remain a mystery.
There’s nothing I want more than to be closer to my creator. For you have shaped my skin and bone. Made every beauty mark and scar. You stretched out the subtle space between my two front teeth. You made my hair so wild, it even defies gravity, and my skin the very shade of the earth, that we walk upon.
All this, so that I would remember to love myself, never settling for less than I deserve. You made sure to send people into my life who would help teach me, patience. Molded me with kindness and fire, so that I could push through adversity. You made a rough draft of my life, crumbled it up into a ball and said, I’ll let her decide. Whether she will or will not follow all my signs.
Love me either way, but constantly remind me that really, truth and raw beauty lies inside.
I have had so many love affairs with my eyes.
Direct & enticing
Deliberate & sweet.
In this moment, you have somehow become mine.
Remove every layer of cloth, while I trace my fingers along your scars, down your spine.
Allow me to create art.
Paint your body with soft strokes of emotion.
Water your mind.
I’m sorry, you like many have become victim to my art.
My body is at standstill, air passes through the lungs.
No sound escapes, but be sure that if I have ever loved you in any type of way.
Whether forever or just a day.
You may never hear it from my mouth, but only know it from the words I write.
These words are mine and in this moment, so are you.
Too many lovers & somehow, still too few.