I had lost myself in you. The many pieces of me scattered over the battlefields of lost love, mixed in with jealously, nonsensical arguments, and other emotional debris. Every time you leave you take a piece of me, but I want you to remember me so I give willingly. Years go by but the ‘what ifs’ still haunt me. Was it her? Was it me, or was it we? In my eyes you are a creation of beauty. They say the destiny of the misunderstood is to be lonely. I commune with myself with past memories as my only company; the sensual whispers, deep kisses and your laughter especially. A strand of your hair found on a pillow is enough to invoke emotions in me that I would otherwise never know. Like a strong tide, you pull me to and fro; I struggle to swim and get back to shore, but upon my return the man I used be is no more. Inadvertently, you also left a piece of yourself with me as you walked out of the door. Goodbye kisses turn into final intimate experiences, and then again last words are spoken. I wait until you drive off to commence my long held weeping. Tears still flow even after the third day of mourning. To dull the pain, old numbers are called and familiar voices answer, but it’s not the same. I try to pull away from you, but seemingly we are conjoined; it was a revelation to me when I realized my heart was no longer mine. A collage of past loves adorn the wall of my heart like a gallery of fine art; each one with their own unique story, narrated with powerful oratory. If you ever need me, send for me with love, addressed, in care of my heart with the postage of white doves, sealed with a kiss and scented with the perfume I most miss.
Category: Prose
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Is there redemption to be found in suffering?
Is there nobility in enduring incessant pain?
Can darkened eyes see blue skies through constant rain?
Are we not mortals set in our ways?
Do we not dread the end of days?
Do we not work our fingers to the bone
And apply for loans with interest to be repaid?
In the totality of our lives as the ninety nine percent, are we not slaves?
Do we not have dreams that are unseen?
Do we not weep for ourselves in the four walls we dwell?
Are babies not born into a polluted world of living hell?
Do we not live on the edge risking our lives to feel alive?
Do we not indulge in vices to escape our own minds?
Do we not self medicate because conventional therapy offers no escape?
Have we not prayed and prayed to see nothing change?
Do we not try to hide our pain from the eyes of our children?
Is there a magical pill to a new beginning?
Are we condemned to a fiery lake for our constant sinning?
Do we not hold back tears when in the company of our unknowing peers?
Have we not battled and battled the torment of irrational fears?
When it is late and we remain awake, do we not contemplate our fate?
Do we sometimes not break from the heaviness of the weight?
Do we not constantly mentally write and rewrite our own eulogies?
In each other do we not find beauty?
Do we not remember first kisses in the sunshine of the summertime?
When I see her, do I not see an angel in my mind?
Through the storm will I fall in the field or will I survive?
Does the vengeance in my blood manifest in my son’s eyes?
In our listlessness do we still look to the skies?
In my plight am I misunderstood?
Do I hold back my love or give one hundred percent as I should?
In the loves I have lost, would I change the outcome if I could?
If I had the power would I resurrect my mother?
Do my weaknesses reflect the genetics of my father?
In my pursuance of success, should I even bother?
Is the world rife with decadence and are the years becoming stranger?
Have I become a recluse with unjustified anger?
From the beautiful sentiments I relayed, does she not remember?
In the affects of my childhood do I continue to suffer?
If it doesn’t kill you does it really make you stronger?
Can the moments of peace be made to last longer?
Can two or three small yellow pills cure chronic insomnia?
What qualities in particular make a good lover?
Did the chicken come before the egg, or is it the other?
Should I have stayed, or should I have left her?
Am I both a victim and a survivor?
Do I protect the appearance of vulnerability with a gruff exterior?
Do I approach the advent of adversity in a rational manner?
Are people with cogent minds better orators?
Is marriage better than being a perpetual lover?
Was it the allure of the exterior, or did I really love her?
Did I say something regrettable in my anger?
Are the questions pertinent? . . . I wonder. -
The last words to his love were intimately spoken. The sincerity and love in his heart conveyed to her in eternal whispers. Read his last rights, he left that night immersed in the depths of her love holding hands; his warmth against her warmth in silent passion. On his body were the drops of her tears; even in death her love sustained him. She gently passed her fingers through his hair and kissed him. The marriage of souls could never be broken. The angels wept as heaven’s light received him. The violin of her soul composed a new song dedicated to the memory of many years; upon returning home indeed she did cry many tears. It is in weeping that the contents of the soul are poured out. Her love, oh her precious love, in the bed in which they slept, she reaches for him. In the cool air of the early spring, in her heart she writes letters. He is memorialized in the gleam in her eyes that truly signifies the perpetual love in her heart, for that gleam no other man could capture. He belongs to her and she belongs to him forever. The poetry of her soul are the loving utterances when in loneliness and in darkness … she calls his name. In intimate moments of her devotion she feels his hands moving gently against her body … she recollects his touch; she is moved with passion. He is neither gone nor forgotten, for he is right there with her in those moments sharing in sweet euphoria. He calls her name again and again in amorous whisper, and she hears him; the voice of her only love penetrates her consciousness and inundates her with dreams of their first kiss. Oh what a recollection of amatory! In her mind, again and again she replays their story. She is an angel in glorious beauty. She lies down next to him. His warmth holds her eternally.
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Though I do not want to, my heart still loves you,
But remnants of hatred stubbornly linger;
The in-between is my hell. -
Torment and agony are the portion of the afflicted.
Behind the eyes is where it lives.
A smile can be deceiving, for even in the warmth
Of good company she is naked in cold winter winds.
Words sometimes cannot be used to express true feelings.
In whispered utter these are the only words she could muster:
If I may seem distant my love, know that it is not you.
When asked how she was, she said,
I’m fine, knowing it was not true.
Ideations of not being here cause her to rush to another room
To weep, wash her face and hide the tears.
Are friends really friends when the burden can’t be shared?
She is loving and considerate, and their feelings she would spare.
But it is when feelings are held in that the wounds are deeper,
And the tears, and the agony, and the wailing.
Even if heaven knows her cries, still, inside she dies …
Unknowingly they take of her, and take of her again.
In their euphoria the essence of her they freely spend.
Beneath the surface she craves light and healing;
In her breath, her preciousness, her torment, her pain
Her aspirations, and the agony of her life are so revealing.
With wondrous eyes she is beautiful and sparkling,
But Look past her countenance and deep into her soul to see her suffering.
Her childhood you would witness; the pain of abuse;
The hell of silent agony and constant misuse.
As I stare into her eyes she nods and greets me with a smile;
In knowing the essence of her, I embrace her, gently kiss her, and cry. -
Sunday, Jan.3, 1993
2:02 A.M. Annapolis, Maryland
Winter.Michael’s Entry:
The tears of a sorrowful man are constant and heavy. Brown eyes look up at grey skies and hope for a better tomorrow. The tears I cry are the tears of a child’s pain held back many years. I have contended with the darkness, and still I face my fears. What is to be said of past anguish and torment left untold? In a dark room a child cried and kept his pain inside. The secrecy of the darkness when it exposes itself is hideous in its raw truth. The ugliness of the underbelly dredge up memories that anger me. Through the eyes of a child, looking at my mother I asked God why he didn’t take us together. Many have told me not to dwell on it, but often I ponder. My sadness increases daily. I am a man in a wilderness of torment seeking an oasis of peace. It is with a heavy heart that I write; I sleep when I can, but I am up most nights. It’s been two years now since Luciana has left. I miss her; but I would never tell her. I am happy she has moved on and found the love she always wanted. I could have done things better, but maybe it’s for the best. Still, I am haunted by the ‘what-ifs.’ Two nights ago I dozed off behind the wheel and almost veered into oncoming traffic; the insomnia is taking its toll. I haven’t spoken to my family in over four years and it’s been somewhat therapeutic. Unsolicited advice from people with their own lives in shambles always irritated me. I do have a dear aunt that’s close to me, but even our relationship is strained. I’ve held things in for years but no more. In fact, I am more resolute than ever to speak my mind despite the potential for hurt feelings; of course, being as respectful as I can be as man who prides himself on etiquette. I no longer have the vigor for life I once had when I was younger. The progression of events that I experienced as a child have have largely contributed to my current state.
It’s hard living life in a constant state of agony. I think what I’ve sought all these years is understanding; someone with genuine love. Granted, sometimes I haven’t been the easiest person to be with, and I’m readily willing to admit my faults. I think the harsh reality is some people are just destined to be alone; years ago I would have never come to this conclusion, but more and more I see true love as something in fairy tales and an illusion. I have been accused of thinking negatively before, so maybe I should refrain, or maybe not. I do have a lady that I’ve been talking to recently, but I hold no hope of it developing into anything more than an acquaintanceship; her name is Stephanie. She is quite attractive, and so far her personality is genteel. The medicine my physician prescribed for my anxiety and depression are no longer effective. I have an appointment next week to address my ongoing insomnia; I’m hopeful it can be resolved in the near future. Frankly I’m dead tired, but I would rather write than look up at the ceiling. These days I find myself crying more than ever. Also, I think I’ve lost my faith in religion. I stopped praying years ago because my prayers weren’t being answered; some may say it’s because I didn’t have enough faith and maybe they’re right. It’s a topic I have to revisit but don’t feel like expounding on right now.
I’m usually responsible financially but recently I have been spending excessively on things that I think will make me happy or at least grant me reprieve from the realities of life. Yesterday I spent a shitload of money on a leather jacket I didn’t need, and I don’t fucking care; it looks good on me and I like it. Fuck it. Is my wild spending some kind of symptom of a mental breakdown? Maybe, or maybe not. I don’t know why in the hell my mind keeps forcing me to think about Luciana. I don’t want to. She’s married now, with a husband and a child on the way, last I heard. It seems everyone else around me is happy, and I am condemned to a life of forlorn and perpetual pain. I have contemplated on this very prospect for some time now and still can’t seem to reach any rational conclusion. I think of the utter darkness of the void and if there is peace to be found in it. Self reflection is a good thing generally, but I tend to dwell on things, so it’s a little different for me. I want to dream beautiful dreams and travel the world with a significant other. I want to be at peace with myself and settle my thoughts long enough to get some fucking sleep. It’s snowing outside and I like seeing the snowfall under the street light near my window; it brings a certain feeling of calmness. I think I will dust off my record player and put on, Violin Sonata in G minor (Tartini) “Devil’s Trill Sonata,” which is a favorite of mine from the Baroque period. Now will also be a good time for some herbal tea; I might as well since I’m up anyway. Goodnight, or good morning rather.
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In the millions we gather and cry together; we hold hands and sing by the banks of the river. Our stories of pain are illuminated in our eyes. We have loved, we have lost; We have endured the lonely winters. Each one of us, we bear our own cross; to each other we are healing and light. As the dark night approaches, in the dusk we again recapture the happiness of our youth. Laughter ensues; we chase butterflies as the fireflies join in our joy and light up the night’s skies. We are here; we are scarred but we are here. We commune and dine together and wipe away each others tears. We recall the hardships and joys of our many years. In a vision I see my mother and she is there. We release and the river overflows from all of our tears; we are light beings, and our redemption is near.
I have found my true love again, and as we lie together, I have rediscovered the most secret and sacred parts of her. Oh for so long I had dreamt of again being lost in you; at this gathering of the sorrowful I have again found you and poured out my heart to you. For so many winters my heart wrote you letters that can’t be heard or spoken; we have suffered, all of us, with heavy eyes we had read the vile and disparaging words the world has written of us. With mocking words they eulogize us though we still live; they seek to bury us alive and wipe our memories eternally from the face of the earth. In our deep love for one another, we have found our healing and our rebirth. Step by step through dark clouds we reach heaven’s gates; as we enter, we hold hands together. At the golden round table our banquet awaits.
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It is in darkness that we have found our true selves. The madness of isolation forces vivid memories of first loves and intimate moments to surface. The restless wailing of souls pierce the eardrums and release emotions within us never before experienced. We grasp these moments like we try to recollect a beautiful dream. We drink sweet wine with tears streaming from our eyes; tears drop in wine glasses. Overcome, we stand one by one and tell tales of love and memories well remembered. As I recollect it was in December that I first clung to my mother’s neck and with love she held me. “You are a good son” are the last words my grandmother would tell me. Red roses on each headstone are gently placed as dusk approaches, but in my heart is their memorial. Smile upon me now oh mother of my inception and in my desolation comfort me like a new born baby.
I have tasted of the bitter portion of misery and wish to consume it no longer. I have dreamed heavenly dreams of walking the endless halls of Valhalla. In the abyss my eyes have grown accustomed to the darkness; I have become an involuntary recluse. It is not I who has left the world, but it is the world that has left me. Passersby see my frailty, and in ghastly astonishment they shun me. The emaciation of once strong muscle and the gauntness and thinness of stretched skin over protruding bone is alarming to their delicate eyes. I am a spectacle of illness in their imaginary perfect world. A leper to be outcast and spat upon in disgust as they pass by the gates of the city. I had once hoped to find love again but found only deception and torment. The days go by, but I refuse to count. Their false pity and insincere well wishes are spotted very easily.
My faith wanes. Will they label me an apostate and seek to burn me at the stake? Will they convict me of heresy if I am no longer willing to pray? Weariness takes over, but insomnia does not allow any rest; the last memory of my love is my head resting on the comfort of her breasts. Hope can sustain, but hope can also be a stark reminder of pain. I stare into the mirror and he stares back at me, but who is he really? I seek answers, but in the interim I long to begin again. At last reborn.
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The malabsorption of fear renders the intestines nauseous and liquefied with sickness. It must not be ingested and given a chance to spread and metastasize; it must be wholly spit out and rejected. If swallowed, it must be immediately purged from the stomach, heaved out with extreme prejudice and burned in blue fire. But when the table is set, will we eat of the portions of fear, lies, illusions, and fast made conclusions, or will we reject the poisonous banquet?
The sweet fruit of clarity and the now reality longs to be eaten, broken down, and used as nourishment for the system.
The caustic ulcers of contagion bleed, heal and bleed again, in the interim.
Intimate Compositions 