I remember, the heat of you –
a fire stealing all
the air, in the room –
Suffocation,
overwhelming the bellows
in my chest,
forced closed
and empty like
they were so weak –
helpless, in the presence of you,
a forest dry, thirsting for rain,
laid waste by the blaze
of your lips –
In the ashes
of their destruction,
was born
our love.
What embers wrought
is gone now –
what has been made ashen,
will not know flame,
again.
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And by mine hand may you be brought low,
not struck but lied down gently,
not to rest but rather shining wake,
ever woken and quaking –
and lo, behold,
by mine hand might you tremble,
not in fright but anticipation,
not simply excitement
but there, temptation –
by mine hand,
for a night,
you are mine.
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A young lesson, then –
Sometimes, I will be too strong
for the delicate skin
of my friends –
and though now my body has become,
or at least feels,
so much more frail –
though my mind has become
so much more
soft of heart –
it seems still that I can crush
so easily
when I mean instead
to caress –
a young lesson then,
again learned –
you must fear yet
your own strength –
sometimes it’s better to be
far too gentle
than to hurt the ones you love.
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And, god,
I have held the joy
and the pain --
of so many lovers --
So much. So much joy
And so much pain
had, shared,
caused, and endured --
The good, so good --
surely our time would stretch on
into eternity --
And the hurt so bad,
at the end of that "eternity,"
that surely,
surely,
there will never be love again --
And yet still, I love, once more,
no matter how hard I swear
'never again" //
I always wonder, how,
when we hurt each other
so much, we can still die
loving one another
In a way, I hurt myself,
with the knowledge that I've left
pieces of myself
with every,
last,
one of you,
as have you all, with me --
and when I go,
I will shed tears for what I had
with each and every one of you --
and I know,
for better or worse,
I'll always be there,
on your minds --
For each and everyone if felt
so much pain,
and joy --
And I'd change that for nothing,
even at times, like now,
when I'm doing nothing
but shedding tears.
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I will be mourning our connection,
I fear, until I lay
down in my grave.
How do you bury
the loss of abounding love,
when your mind has never
held a grave
for feeling?
That which has been lost before
as has been lost today,
roams freely, eternally,
upon the ashen fields
of conscious,
unending --
If we deign to speak again,
you will not know this --
Kind, but stoic I will be --
if I betray
(in some golden future
in which I will be able to
speak to you again)
that I still feel for you
how I did
at our most loving, I know,
I would only cause you
the pain
I'd still feel.
Come back to me,
I scream,
into the void --
If there is a god to hear me, please,
grant this wish;
Lest you leave me existing with this hole
where my heart should be //
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You slept
long into the day
and with the least of grace --
the most beautiful creature
I'd ever seen --
first, the morning,
and then the afternoon air
filled with jagged snores,
harsh breaths,
and hurried, single,
nonsensical words --
I could not leave the bed;
every last bit of it
soothed me to my core --
Every last bit filled me
with that beautiful light like
that of the morn'
which by the time you woke
had long since passsed --
"Welcome, sleepyhead,"
I'd announce, beaming
with the warmth I felt for you
"to the world of the living."
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On top of today’s update, I also have a new painting. He’ll probably show up soon. Probably. Soon.
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What's it like there,
on the edge of time?
You seem so close --
If you were to close your eyes
and wander,
what would it be?
Fifteen steps
and a sheer drop?
What hides there,
beyond that which
holds us so dear, so near, so rough,
to the things we've done?
Are you afraid to know?
Would you sink in that void,
or simply,
float away?
Or maybe, shackles broken,
eyes w I d e open
to all that is, was,
and could ever,
will ever,
be --
Would you become ethereal?
or perhaps, more simply,
cease? //
If you need a hand,
I'll give one to you --
If you're still afraid,
I'll test the waters --
I'm too curious,
and too tired of that which
I cannot change
and furthermore,
cannot predict --
Knowledge
and/or oblivion
sounds nice,
doesn't it?
Doesn't it?
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Exchange --
The ephemeral give and take --
you take all that I can give,
and I give it all willingly --
because for myself,
for someone like me,
to give is to take;
to know that I can
bring you that which you need --
warmth, love, and understanding --
fills me to the brim --
and yet still, I admit that,
to some extent,
I am not taking enough --
the satisfaction of giving love
is reward, surely,
but I am cursed with the inability
to ask for what I truly need --
that same warmth,
understanding,
and love...
And so they love,
but do not understand --
are warm, but do not love --
understand, but are oh,
so cold --
I give, but do not take --
take, in the act of giving --
take, but cannot take enough --
Give, what you ask of me,
but, though I know it foolish,
silly, feel it greedy, still,
to ask for what I need --
Exchange.
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And something about you
gets me a little
off-guard --
so it doesn't matter how
softly
you float the words
"I love you--"
they still somehow manage
to stab me deep --
and I wonder just how deep
the problems go
when the first words from my lips
aren't the same ones,
in kind, but,
asking if you're okay,
or wondering what you want --
because surely,
an "I love you,"
could never be true
for me.
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Tintern Abbey (Carl Gustav Carus, 1789 - 1869)
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Amnesiac, I --
I cry and hide my face but
I forget why.
The labyrinth inside
matches the one without --
there has to be a way out.
Must be
a way out.
How has everyone else found their way?
Will no one else find it in themselves
to stay?
Stay and guide me,
please,
away.
I’m a bull-headed fool,
and too fool enough to just,
use my head and
knock the walls down.
I’m locked in,
and cry to myself.
I see the sunlight from deep in here,
and you can hear my wails
from far out there.
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Who am I, really, to act like I know;
There’s a world to you that I’ve never been shown --
(and probably never will be) so,
Who am I to pretend, to believe I belong, when I’ve always felt
and later come to know,
that there is nowhere
that I belong, so,
Who am I to believe that I love you? That I
was ever even able
to love? And really, also,
Who? Who am I?
who knows if I can ever
truly know?
A pretender with a name that means
little to most and
summons painful memory in some, fewer,
still --
Who am I?
Who, besides you,
would ever know --
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And You taught me
that maybe, I shouldn't be shaping myself
to the expectations of others,
just for a morsel of love
And you?
You taught me that no one could ever
really react to what makes up who I am --
we are all just guessing
at the shape and place of all the edges
of each other's souls --
And she taught me
that the ones that accuse you
tend to perpetrate the very things
they worry you do --
And the last one, You?
Taught me that I can't trust the words
"I love you,"
because even when you mean it,
believe it with your whole heart,
you can be wrong --
and eventually, when you realize,
I'll only be left alone again.
Why do lovers have to be lessons?
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I wrote something for you.
I never had a chance to give it --
never even left my hands.
I set it on fire between my fingers --
trying for that old warmth
that only you
could make me feel.
I thought better , I did, of
explaining that feeling
and so,
I set my words to ash.
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Your careless words
should have made me
love you less --
how exactly could I complain
when my own careless words
are what made you fall in love
to begin with.
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“ I can feel you all around me,”
you say -- for a moment I fear that maybe I
am too close. Suffocating --
You smile, always able to parse the currents --
“You keep me warm.”
Leave it to me to find the bad,
in a cooling breeze.
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