Hangs heavy the heart

This is the 13th anniversary of Morgan’s death.
I’m reliving those minutes. Those mistakes. In full acceptance. I failed her in a way that I won’t fail again. So I seem like I’m cautious. Making sure we are on the same page. Reiterating thoughts to garner agreement and clarification. A friend of mine said that’s just what a Sir does. Perhaps she’s right. But I think that I must admit that this more than anything is what shaped me. Not just her death. Her murder. But also her life. Her love.

Because of her, I have bedrock proof that love is real. I know that relationships are hard. That letting things go causes damage. That failing to fight for your desires is a mistake. I know that losing someone never goes away. That you don’t heal. Instead you grow around the pain. Grow beyond it. And so appear sound. But the wound is always there.

I thought when I came out of the depression. The bleakness. When I could again feel. I thought that I was healthy. But those were first steps. And really, I won’t ever be whole. No one is. Being whole is being stagnant. Unchanging.

It’s not that I’m hopeful. It’s that I don’t want to fail to live in the love that she showed me was real. How could I dishonor her by failing to see the people around me, See their beauty, Foster their light and darkness?

I take this time. This day. To remember her.
To lament all that was lost.
To realize all that I’ve become.
From this frozen moment, I’d erase if I could.
This bloody seed crystal of the man I am.
Of the person I become tomorrow

Realizing times passage

That moment in your otherwise ok life when you look up and remember what’s over the horizon and you are instantly overwhelmed. The past comes round again, no matter how much time passes, it’s always there lurking and ready to ambush you. Tarnishing your thoughts with grief and an impending sense of falling.

Today I wondered why I was feeling sad. I should be happier. Things are going ok. Then I realized, just over a month away is the 13 year anniversary of Morgan’s death.

And like that, I’m adrift.

An artists rendition

Hold up a mirror to face my flaws
Saw you watching me
Quietly in the background
Mirrors show us things we cannot ourselves see
And how can such an image be trusted
It reflects but does it reflect true or
Is our brain trying to fill the edge of space with maybes
I saw you there
Crying in the mirror
No sound
And I turn and you are dust
Each morning
Getting ready
Fogging the mirror with steam
so that I can not see
Until I look and see
That I have become whole
And what I’m missing is you
This is what healing is
Another way of losing you a third time

No sleep mambo

She consumes me
Heart on fire but no words
Say yes
Take you into my hands
Make you safe and unsafe
Dance hands across skin
Across throat
Air dwindles as euphoria spreads
I know she doesn’t want me
Her heart a danger
Can’t help how I feel
She doesn’t want to know
Again and again on this circus wheel
Making the same mistake
Only one ever wanted me
And I failed her
I don’t deserve anyone else

Slow motion fall

There is a euphoria to posting something that is both personal and fundamentally true. It carries you for a time. Like walking after setting down a great weight you’ve been holding on to. And just like that, it wears off. Pretty soon, you feel like yourself again.

It may be this time of year. I just can’t seem to reach back beyond that night. I try to think of the night we met or any of the hundreds of other moments that we were happy in. But it all just morphs into me holding her. Waiting for the doctor to arrive. Her shallow breathing.

I feel empty. For the last few years I’ve been, at least, talking to someone romantically. That takes the edge off. Like there is hope. But this year, it’s all just ashes.

I find myself crying. And have for months now. I can’t seem to get out of this. Mostly, in the day, I’m OK. But night brings the silence and I can’t handle it.

13 day spiral

My head is a wasps nest
breaking apart and flying out terror
little reminders of times gone by
there are obvious things I’d say/have said/will say
but the other truths are the hardest
the ones that say I’ve failed her by not being the man who could be loved again
by not being the man she knew
I can’t get back to that person
he died with her
but now I can’t get to someone who can hold a lover
because I just don’t fit
not right
not now
a dull chant
No one wants to hear

15 days, dwindling

I miss caring for someone and being cared for in return. I miss giving an order and having carried it out. I miss the joy on my their face when I say, “Good Girl.” I miss the life. The life as I learned it. The submission and compliance. Punishment and reward. Rules made to show care, to demonstrate love, to make each moment better. Never to hold back, always to foster growth. I miss these things, but mostly I miss being loved. I miss loving someone full bore with my slightly crazy heart and being loved in return by theirs.

I miss the lifestyle because it’s the only world I’ve known where love is the most important thing. Where communication rises to the level of my need. Where such is internally enforced by the cultural norms of the lifestyle. Maybe this is my experience because I’m the common denominator, I know that others have experienced abuse, that this lifestyle draws abusers and takers.

I’m not that. I have no way to convince you. You would need to trust me. I have no real point here. I’m 15 days out and I guess I just miss my Morgan. We weren’t perfect, but we had love. I miss her. I miss who I was with her. I miss…

The too quiet morning

I recently told a friend that I anticipated that this September would be a bad one. Last year I was distracted by relationships, failed or otherwise. This year I, now, have no such distance. She said there was still time, that some relationship might start up. She was being kind, maybe a bit fearful of my state in the weeks that lead up to that dreadful anniversary. I find myself less than optimistic concerning the same thing. The possibility of anything seems so distant. And my efforts seem to not make a bit of difference. Like fighting a tiller in a storm, even though the seas seem calm. I just keep moving forward, swept along the current. Unable to find home or shore.