The Memory of a Confession

The memory that keeps returning, is the one where you slipped off to nap…only to return an hour later to whisper your confession in my ear.

We were with friends, you had an extra glass or two. We all though it odd that you would sneak away, but maybe the drinks had more sway than you had intended. To the guest room you went.

I was outside, on the back patio when you returned, enjoying a glass and some quiet. Our friends inside, tidying up the kitchen after the dinner they had prepared.

You plopped down next to me, hair a little disheveled from the pillow.

I asked if you felt better. You told me you felt fantastic! I was glad that the nap helped.

You whispered to me that you didn’t nap at all. You slowly brushed your hand against my cheek.

I could smell the slick aroma on your fingers.

Your sly smile said that it was time to go…

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Ghosts of Embers

I woke up today only to find ash in the web.

The soot from a falling sky, dusting “what once was” on a world in slumber.

The faint aroma of shampoo and cigarettes and willful arrogance wafting through the acrid air.

The silence accosting me like that after a snowfall, muted, tender…agnostic to its effect.

It would be simple, almost a comfort, to ease myself into a warm bath of bitterness and apathy, my longest held companions, but I will fight the fading of my heart.

I will embrace this passing, lean into this high speed collision.

Understanding, in my waning years, that a cold bed still rewards with a sleep that the unforgiving ground does not.

That a web of ash, has still caught something…ghosts of embers.

 

The Words of Wiser Hearts

“I used to think that this was my town,

What a stupid thing to think,

I hear you’re fighting off a breakdown,

I myself am on the brink.”

Jason Isbell – Hope The High Road


It’s kind of silly, all the effort we exert to try and maintain the illusion of control.

We con ourselves into the facetious notion that we can will our worlds perfect, that we can craft things, situations…people, into some glossy image of pinnacle.

It’s solid bullshit. 

We know this as a truth, yet we still aspire to a fantasy standard. An optical, emotional, social fallacy.

I have been told, in the words of wiser hearts, that it’s only when we let go, when we give up the notion of control, that is the inciting incident for our path to enlightenment and bliss.

If I give up those reins, it will be due to a weary soul. A cosmic apathy that may set in.

Then change can begin…or so I have been told.

The Anesthesia of Empty Lust

She wasn’t living life on her terms. This wasn’t her spreading her wings. She lied to herself and labeled it just a bit of fun.

Make no mistake…this was drowning.

She had done all the right things at the right places for all the right people. Sometimes, you can do everything right and still lose. That’s the bitter irony of having a heartbeat.

And her’s still beat, and ached. It still felt every letdown and disappointment like tiny, slow deaths. It was a chronic, dull and seemingly never ending heartbreak.

To quell the pain, she would seek refuge in the arms of anyone offering the illusion of kindness, the empty promise of intimacy or, more often lately, the anesthesia of empty lust.

Man or woman, it made no difference. Just the warm touch of anyone, became her dragon. And she chased the dragon with manic determination.

Recently, though, she would come up for air less and less often. Gulping oxygen into her bruised soul long enough for the cold descent back down.

This was an attempt, an ideation. This was beyond a cry for help, this was about extinguishing her dimmed light, one hotel, one car seat…one bed at a time.

Whatever led her through the doors of my world that night, I’ll never know. A Devine placement of two broken vessels, set on a collision course by faith and providence? Or just a random encounter that would change lives and worlds? I’ll never know. I don’t need to know.

What I do know is I still see the light that shines in her. 

And I’ll extend my hand, with nothing asked for in return, hoping that she sees it as I intend.

I know that ache, I’ve felt similar waters of dispair. 

If she will only take my hand…

There it is…

I have a sudden urge to bring a smile to your lips.

No real reason, other than it brings me joy when you light up.

I could tell you a silly joke, something absurd, like a child would recant to their classmates on recess.

Or I could talk of a private moment shared that we both hold very dear.

Perhaps I could compliment you in some simple and very heartfelt way, that would be quite easy, except where to start.

But I think that this is my path to your smile.

I hoestly adore you. Every moment I spend with you is a gift that I cherish. Every time I think I couldn’t love you more, you do or say something and my heart melts all over again.

Thank you, my love.

Thank you for your smile.

Lust and Carnage

Yeah, you wanted this.

A gratuitous hedonistic break from all the shit… a desperate sprint toward oblivion of the flesh. You wanted this. Your insides screamed so loud for exactly this. Lust and carnage.

You all but snarled when the scent first caught you. My scent, my proximity. So close now, you could taste my sweet breath. It tasted like raw, unrefined sex. Like fucking, just to breathe. Your body morphed, adapted to this, a fighter’s form. A battle stance. Hellbent on exacting and inflicting as much pleasure as inhumanly possible, take on all cummers!

I picked this fuck-fight. I knocked that chip off your shoulder with my cock and dared you, taunted you, felt you and violated you. I pushed you around with threats of thrusts, and quivering. Hurling invectives of bit nips and wet cunt. And as you cowered, I asked what you were going to do about it? If you want this, whore, here I am! Come take it!

Yeah, you wanted this.

Your onslaught of my body was both tactical and opportunistic. You were a warrior of my creation, trained without a sense of mercy. When you climbed me, you violated yourself with my cock, I was no longer a foil or even a person. I was a tool. A means to an end. And that end is mutually assured destruction. When you do cum, there is a blast radius.

After your wild assault, I take my ground back. I drive in, I bring both pleasure and pain. I leave marks and you laugh at each one. Daring me. Pushing me. Harder. You fucking pussy, is that all you got? It wasn’t. I had more. You laughed again, because it was fucking perfect. Perfect.

Yeah, you wanted this… so did I.

Soothe Me. Abuse Me.

I seem a little off of late.

Suspended, it seems, between two opposite and coexisting planes of existence.

Hungry and apathetic. Beastly and meek.

My appetite for lustful delights seems content to share space with a strong desire to cocoon. I seem to be experiencing Fight AND Flight.

I could just as soon shyly pass you by as devour you. Neither action dominant, neither calling louder than the other.

I long for still, pastoral quiet and ache for deafening, raw bacchanal.

The duality is maddening.

Please soothe me. Please abuse me. 

Both would please me.

Are you a little off? Will I find you sharing this duality? 

I’m almost convinced that you are and are not.

Totality

When the moon crossed the path of the sun, I entered you.

Slow and with commanding intention.

 

As the sky grew night during the day, you took me in and made us both shudder with wild abandon.

Raw and hungry were your desires.

 

When the Walls of Jericho crumble to dust, I will still taste you upon my thirsty lips.

 

I Still Understand A Kindness

I know you have ideas for your perfect world, grand plans for the fairy tale.

You have drawn up dreamy blueprints and castles formed of stardust. You see the world through a filter of childlike optimism and naive wonder. Sewing gardens of the stuff of angels wings and lush fields of spun gold.

I see how hard you toil over the perfection of this personal utopia, every setback as an opportunity to build better to craft your paradise in perfect tune with your heart’s syncopated rhythm.

My dear, I am not of your world. I would serve to crush your cities like sandcastles and drain your heart gray.

Not of intention or dark scheme…it, sadly, is just my nature.

There may have been a time, far enough in my past that only ghostly memories remain. A time when my eyes could see visions like yours of gilded towers and free birds and budding love…

I have come to believe it all mirage. More a realization of what IS rather than a pity of self. Realism, in all its cold and stark contrast to your blinding and beautiful idealism. I see nothing but the shadow that sunlight casts, not the warmth that you bask in, like summer rain.

I was drawn to you, in that way that opposites attract. But everything must find an equilibrium, a median point where two temperatures find common. If I stay, our center would become cold to the touch, as I fear that your light would be of little match for my dark ways.

I am cold, but I still understand a kindness. My gift to you is my absence.

Your towers and gardens need sun, I would, in time, block that out and cast a sad pall upon your fields of spun gold.

Find a bright moon to compliment you.

I’m afraid that I would only salt the soil.

A Vivid Mystery

“If you have never stared off into the distance,

Then your life is a shame”

~Adam Duritz : Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby  

 

I dream. Often.

My mind wanders through an infinite number of possibilities and pairings, what-if’s and wonders.

There is something that reoccurs in those lucid walks through my mind…a woman.

It is not someone I have met yet, although many of the women that have collided into my world have a trait or two. This woman is still a vivid mystery.

She has deep auburn hair and a timeless gentle soul. I have have spent lifetimes with her and yet, never spent one second in her presence.

Her eyes are compassion and pain and strength and whimsy and can bring my very soul to break.  My heart has felt her presence in the laughter playing in the currents of a gentle breeze.

Her mind is razor-sharp and playfully-wicked, balanced with an innocent curiosity and a love of love itself.

She is music. Laughing melodies and sullen harmonies and driving crescendos of brilliant light. I can dance like a child to the chorus of her honest magnetism.

Underneath her light spirit is a foundation built on loss and owned missteps, giving her a depth of self-awareness and wisdom that propels her to soar, only afraid of a life un-lived.

She is lyrical and open to all things, like a palette of infinite color.

If I close my eyes so tight as to water, I can glimpse her mischievous smile.

If I do not find her here, now…I am content to know I WILL find her. Somewhere.

As dreams go, she is as real as anyone or anything. My heart knows this as truth.