Bone Weary

I’m tired of writing about my heart broken, about loneliness and desire unrequited.  Even more tired of experiencing it.  Anyone who tells you it is better to have loved and lost is a liar.  Better to not know loves perfect ache than to miss its presence.  But having felt it I cannot make the choice to live light or to delude myself that I’m not looking and so be caught unawares.  What people mean when they say something happens when you stop looking.  I’ll never stop looking but I’ll also never stop wishing I knew how. I wish I knew what I am doing wrong, what I’m doing right? Are the right people in my past or does the future hold a chance? Should I step sideways, walk away from this world and on to the next? Have the chances of this world so thinned that another would suit better.  I am uncertain.


I am bird and air
A Twistwind
Cool shadow and calm gaze
The shifting tide
I am beast and sound
A Fire consuming
I am moonlit night and sundappled shade
I am the twist of the hip and the dip of a shoulder
exultant Shouts defiant
I am… I AM
Tremble at my passage
Dark and terrible
Beautiful and fell
Walk, neither before or behind
Walk beside and know

Hold me?

I still love every one I have ever loved. I now say I care instead of I love. But this is just a safeguard. A check to maintain the status qo. It is merely that the pain of those lost to me is piled on top of the mountain of pain that I live upon. And each new pain begins to spin out, to cover what came before, in a thin layer that is endurable. How can I expect to find someone who will love me if I cannot let go my pain. Am I getting better or merely becoming better at deluding myself. So many nights and days I don’t want sex, I just want to be held. But, I’ll term it as sex because that is seemingly more socially acceptable than to admit to this weakness. This need for connection.

That is a male problem. We’re not allowed to seem weak. I can get away with crying in public, with being emotional and many other things because I am seen as strong. Unassailable, but vulnerability, that is too far. And truthfully I don’t care what others think, but social mores make things difficult. This is all cold detachment. An effort to bring myself back under control as, as I write this, tears stream down my face. So overcome am I that tears are my only outlet. I want my Morgan back. I want to hold Eric one last time. I want what cannot be.

Stream of consciousness

Set adrift, spin round, paper boat on the wide sea, drift tide pulling back to launch,full circle, accomplishments lost to anonymity, lamentations for a life lived as others cannot understand, foreign and exotic, what to explain and what to leave behind, stories and thoughts lived in other lives, explain a piece that feels incomplete, justify passion, wonder at your touch, then dropped, more puzzled than sad, quizzical, what I write disconnected at times to how I feel, consciousness streamed through a leaking sieve, I think back and you certainly left an impression, bloody damn memory based in touch, I remember damn near every moment with you, and others whom I did love only get fragments, I’d love a second chance to fuck you, this time in a room less cold, spin top, drink wine, play the games we promised, never ask for a fantasy I haven’t tried, there are so few, ask for what I desire with you, you’ll not be disappointed, oh recent past stands out, past people can understand, past that doesn’t involve a whip, a lash, blood and screams, her desire was singular and my desire to give her all coupled well, I owned her and out of selfishness failed her, and every day since is a curse, I died as she did that day, I just didn’t lay down, I’d seek redemption but I don’t deserve it, faltered once in my ideals, will never falter again, this makes me strange and twisted, sexual sensual, a walking talking mixed signal, sex and lust: kiss and touch but never far enough until love, by which time everyone has since flown, sex as a good time, belittles us, makes mockery of its beauty, can you not love as I love, just a bit of time to fall then you’ll have all of me, love need not be permanent, immutable, love me this night and for three nights, fall as I fall, we need not be the whole of each other’s world’s, but we should be more than just a orgasm


I’m tired of this pointless rut carried out in words.  This diversion, this flirtation leading to nothing but inflamed thoughts. I’ve spent years in service to the pleasures of the flesh. Easy now to recount, to regale, but without you near what purpose? I’m right back to that jaded point where I am weary of the pleasure centered on cock and cunt. Explore with me the sensation of touch but leave off those. Too easy, too simple.  Explore pain and music, sound and sensation.  Taste, pressure.  Speak of art and philosophy. Weave with me a story.  Ascend past the barrier of flesh into resonant wavelengths.  Dance and sing, give voice to the internal monologue, let me hear your every thought as you think it.  I want more than the pleasure of simple desire. Give me complexity, conundrum and puzzle.