Tag: Lost Love
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I take an inventory of myself, and I retrace the steps I made on the day you left. Still, my heart beats for you.
But someone else takes away your breath—
Diligently, I search the vast emotions of my depths to find memories of you smiling in your favorite sundress.
But someone else takes away your breath—
I whisper vows to the mighty archangels, telling them of my contriteness; my tears falling on heaven’s steps until there are no tears left.
But someone else takes away your breath—
I ponder theories of love and reunification after death, lying silently in bed with my hands over the place within me that you are secretly kept.
But someone else takes away your breath—
Tears drop on pictures of you as I reach for but a sliver of your aura with my arms outstretched.
But someone else takes away your breath—
With every loving touch and passionate kiss I received from you, parts of your heart, I secretly kept. Your love is in me forever, fused to the foundations of my deepest depths.
But someone else takes way your breath—
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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.
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An old blind man sways as if in a trance as he plays the strings of the harpsichord. His skeletal frame like a thin pine tree in hurricane winds. Strands of thin grey hair swing from side to side; his frail hands show large discolored veins and expose protruding bone against thin skin. The iris and pupils of his eyes are cloudy white. His eyes transfixed. He plays the song of a story only he knows. The strings of the harpsichord haunt his memories and recall the days of sorrow and a love he once knew. He cannot cry because there are no tears left to be given. His torment are his memories; still he plays beautifully. The ghostly eyes of the dark crow watch from the shadows.
Intimate Compositions 