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Nude body splayed over
Head on shoulder
Fingers in mouth
Desire and love blossom
Straddle and guide
Souls and bodies entwine
Her hand over heart
Draws ragged gasps
Startled I wake
Scent of her lingers on still air
But I know she’s distant
Maybe never be
Dreams and hearts
Of little consequence
A choice away
Wishing I knew
What path lead to you
In person, I’m a shit storyteller. I don’t organize my life into sequential talking points which hang together. I don’t think about what I’m going to say next or what story to tell. I wait for whomever I’m with to make that conversational gambit. I’ll try to keep up. As long as it’s not about popular TV or celebrities, I’ll have things to say. I suppose that I must be boring after a few months. Having run out of stories and the novelty of having poetry written with them as my muse wears off. I always feel like I’m working to keep them interested long after they would have walked away.
It’s probably a combination of factors. It is incredibly frustrating to only know one side of the reasons or to only be made aware of those things that let me down easy. And, most likely, I should find some way to not lose my heart so easily.
But how do you not fall in love? How do you not see the beauty of their heart, their mind and not fall?
I fear that I will never know. And because of that, I’ll always be wounded or just healed and a step away from falling anew.
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There is a emptiness inside. I look into my self and there is a hollow void. Empty. Apathetic. There is nothing concrete, just dark leviathans almost surfacing but never enough to see what it is. I feel like I’ve been burning my self up trying to achieve my goals and each time I fell, I lost a bit more. Until now, there’s nothing left. I don’t know where I got the fuel and now I can’t seem to wake. I was a ghost in my life, then blazing in fire I woke and now…I am again a ghost. A ghost who knows they are a ghost, who knows they were more and now, just haunt this body.
It is four hours to midnight and it is taking all of my will to write instead of sleep. It’s late. Maybe too late. But failing to post seems momentous. Like allowing the boulder to roll over me.
I’m cold and I huddle under my soft Raven blanket. Socks on, the too loud TV of the front room pushes past the paper thin door, prompting one to choose between quiet and cold. The fan goes on, the white noise drowning out the irregular and unwelcome noise of other people.
I have desires that seem chaste. To hold her in my arms, to make her safe. But hopes seem as lies and no such thing is possible. I can no more will her to see me as enough than I can will her to see herself as I do. Or perhaps, I’m just not what she wants, not enough to actually be with me anyway.
I’m huddled in the cold and noise and try to slip away, into dream. Into other lives. Where hope still lives. And the possible is not so im-.
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Today is Morgan’s birthday. She would have been 44. I’m sure she would still be ravishing.
But that’s not what I have to say today. I’ve been off, living my life, like she would have insisted. And, in the course of doing so, I’ve dated. My last breakup was about 3 months ago. It was an outlier relationship in that it effected me physically as well as emotionally. Specifically, it eased my anxiety and allowed me to sleep at least 8 hours straight through each night. That itself changed me. My depression faded, as it’s exacerbated by sleep deprivation. My health got better and I was not sick for a single day. Which is not to say I’m generally ill but I often feel out of sorts at least once a month.
So it showed me that many of my problems were sleep linked.
I’ve never been a sleeper. Most nights getting between 4-6 hours and crashing once or twice a week. Much of that was occupationally created. Waking up to any odd sound was a bonus in what I had been doing. And not needing as much sleep was just as useful. But my mind and body have paid the toll for that.
So, here I am, 3 months on. Traditionally when I start being better after a breakup. There is always those lingering pieces of why’s and what’s. And after 3 months you start to know, emotionally, that you will never know. So you take from it what you can. And what I can is that sleep is important to me. Which I knew mentally, but having never experienced the effects of sustained nightly ‘enough sleep’ over more than a week; I had no frame of reference.
The last 2 nights I’ve managed enough sleep. Enough that the dreams are back. Enough that I’m traveling the skein of lives. And seeing what some me’s are living in. Last night’s me was burying mobsters in his back yard. Because he was somehow smart enough to be in charge of a criminal syndicate and dumb enough to bury bodies in his back yard. He was also married to a nice and oblivious woman who adopted kittens and kept bees. Most of the dream was his buying digging supplies and lye from a orange craftsmen store. And playing with kittens.
Dreams are weird.
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