Distant song waking, into silence

Shifting against
Nude body splayed over
Head on shoulder
Hand captured
Fingers in mouth
Eyes rise
Electric connection
Desire and love blossom
Straddle and guide
Hand firm
Souls and bodies entwine
Lips devour
Tasting her
Her hand over heart
Pulse spreads
Draws ragged gasps
Soft sound

Startled I wake
Eyes open
Scent of her lingers on still air
But I know she’s distant
Never was
Maybe never be
Dreams and hearts
Of little consequence
A choice away
Wishing I knew
What path lead to you

Trying to process my self and my place in my breakups

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.

Death is no solace when the afterlife has already claimed you

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.

Why skip a post when you can bleed?

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-.