fall is coming.
i smell her in the soil and i catch her song in the rustling of the morning leaves. she is such a brave mother-fucker as she releases the leaves that have expired and asks no questions of what she did wrong or why she wasn’t enough to keep them alive. as greens turn to crimson and goldenrod, perhaps my heart will turn from fire to embers and maybe i will learn from sister autumn to let go of you.
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you said that
i am in love with you, that you can see it in my eyes, but i don’t even know anymore. maybe it was the smell of that balminess you rub into your beard or maybe it was the serendipity of knowing you were near or maybe it was just the alcohol that quiets all my fears and convinces me that dark can be light and i can trust the night and maybe that’s what you saw in my eyes. i have said that i love the way our brokenness dances together, but your brokenness treats me like shit, and my brokenness lets you, so perhaps the familiarity of pain and commiseration is actually the antithesis of healing, the opposite of home. you said that i am beautiful, that you can see it across my life, but do you love me beneath my skin? you are ambiguous and hesitant and the words that mean the most are mumbled under cowardly breaths with eyes averted. there are many things that i feel for you, but the question is truly what do you feel for me? i was told that men show their intentions and their heart with their behavior and not their words, and when i view the youandme through that lens, how you feel (or who you are) is quite clear because you know how to unshutter the windows of my soul, but the truth doesn’t stutter when you turn and let go, you always let go of me. you said that i only love you when you are walking away, but how will you ever know if you don’t ever stay? maybe the truest question is why do i keep showing up? you are the antidote to my ancient sadness (though quick-acting, but not long-lasting) and your accolades drip like honey off your tongue onto my soul, you are like heroin in my blood that lifts me above the tangled briars of childhood and beyond the wreckage of failed fathers and husbands; i know you are no savior and no god, but god damnit i love taking hits off of your moonlit skin, despite the emotional hangover that awaits me when i wake up in the forever of lonely tomorrows. so maybe it’s not love, and maybe the magic between us is better called addiction and maybe the problem (after all) is me. fuck. i lied to you (and
maybe i lied to myself) when i said that those were the last words i would ever write for you. perhaps i didn’t think you would be back or perhaps i didn’t think i would take you back, but either way you have come and gone again and all tear-stained promises and angry ultimatums aside these words must spill from this dilapidated soul so the orphan-pilgrim can be free. i am trying in so many ways to be enough for you can’t you see how much i am trying? can’t you breathe over me as i am dying? the poisoned air of this love unrequited the unpoised fare of this woman plighted when all i ever wanted was you, my love, all i ever wanted was you. yet i am always abbreviated punctuated depreciated and hesitated deeply bracing for you to let go and let go because that is what you do my love make a show of my soul it’s what they always do i know that this is not me this time not my fault not my deficit of enough and not my superfluous love it is you (my love) your magic and brilliance and strength and courage and depth and complexity and breadth and simplicity all wrapped up in a fifteen year-old boy that is trapped in the brawny muscle and bone and body of a man who misses his father where did you leave and why did you go? was i not good enough? i just need to know worth the time worth the trouble worth the work worth the words worth the truth worth the peace worth the pieces of you why? you call into the dark in the midnight hours, and so i ask the same of your withholden powers why? how can i be so torn apart? loving you so honestly and holding my heart together, waiting for the bottom to fall out always waiting for the bottom to fall out because you will let go of me (my love) you always let go why? |
about the writer.“Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap” (George Bernard Shaw) past tense.
January 2019
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