None of you will see this
But all will feel what has been concealed for ages in these pages
One of you will read this
And make this as significant as the other one who places
Themselves in your place.
A replacement. More so adjacent than in place of. A fake love.
The lethal kind, which isn’t kind,
Neither forgiving nor foreboding of holding back sorrow from floating
To the surface she touches, presumes
To feel. To kiss and own. Unknown is the plume of smoke shrouding the whole thing.
She tickles my fancy,
Dancing in moonlit corridors bathed in subtle seduction.
A rebuttal is stifled
Yet clutched in between my lungs, where breath and spirit share living quarters.
For forty days and nights,
I would have given all to receive air in those lungs, with a head hung lower than the rung I’m in.
Her tongue speaks your actions
Yet her actions are none but hollow to me, seeking significance in my days spent alone where she follows me.
Sex in place of love
Has become an idolatry idealized by my drive, a trip I wish would end. I am weak.
Instead I creep through dreams
To wander in search of nights where you are the street light bringing me home.
She’s hurt me, but I’m grizzled.
She’s belittled and coerced me into commitment, smitten by instances of false compassion.
We have been made compatible
through transcending companionship in favor of behaving as combatants.
The fight to loosen her grip
Leaves me timid of a future alone, without what I wished I had saved for you alone.
You. Alone. Myself. Aloof.
Truth is what sets those free, those who long to find the calm in the storms of the sea.
Shipwrecked on an isle
Called home, where the heart was, where the hell is shared. I’m marooned.
An imbecile. A buffoon
Whose entombed by time’s sands. Time’s hands aren’t soft as yours were in mine.
I’ve no memories to keep in mind.
Insofar as you’re love goes, it’s reciprocation is subject to repression deep within me.
The glimmer of you is dimmer
But has never faded. Am I jaded, or are you fated to be a part of me forever?
I’ve been thinking a lot lately. All types of truths have surfaced within, and I’m not too nervous or shy enough to address them. There’s something about me that will always make me different and it’s involved in why I have such a commitment to what used to be a dream but is now dormant. It’s illusive yet still important, and I avoid making advances that could hurt my chances of allowing my faith to take hold and letting God happen. I only mean to say what she always taught me: let it happen if it’s supposed to. She’s still that person to me, the one my heart is closest to. You can say I’m a living mistake, looking back and believing in “maybe, just maybe” and “wishful thinking” and this that and the third. All that jazz, that lalala, those reasons why I have such nerve. Why I speak with such words. Why I observe instead of obsess. Why I won’t stress what shouldn’t be stressed: that which I do not fully understand. Why am I such a dreamer? I have no clue, Watson. I just know that my heart is the source of my flow. True love is constant.