beauty, grief, love, short fiction, women

Baby, It’s You

Tomorrow would have been a day of splendid heraldry. Five years to the day, and I’m here to talk to you. We had picked out every last detail, lost in the tremendous, anxious excitement of a day celebrating our love.

The start of everything.

That last evening was full of mundane details which tragedy lent a mythic resonance

I had undercooked the spaghetti.

You complained for forty minutes about your job then started work on a spreadsheet.

The headache was down to stress; you said. We kissed, your eyes were dull with fatigue but you whispered for me to wake you in an hour and cupped my crotch.

I still feel the squeeze of your fingers against me.

You did not wake up and the world ended. If the devil had come and asked me to trade places, I would have in a heartbeat.

The flat became unbearable. Selling it was like chewing a limb off to escape a trap, and it hurt as much.

I could recite the memories, large and small, but I need to say this without crying.

Let me have my stoicism. Just once.

A smaller apartment, but being sentimental, I carried things of yours with me. Your family became feral in their grief, but I asserted my primal, mourning authority and was the first to take the share of the treasures your passing made of simple things.

They are in the spare room. Boxed up with the lids unsealed so I can torture myself and mourn in one visit.

Lying there, last night, I had left a light on. Which I don’t do, do I?

It used to irritate you how I would turn off the lights when we were not in the room. My way of showing you I had your security in mind.  I figured you knew, but it got lost in translation.

The light came from the spare room. I had spent the evening reading the blizzard of post-it notes you left around the place. A possible oversight, but I got out of bed and check.

I opened the door, expecting to turn off the light, see all I had left of you and go back to bed, wounded and feverish.

Lights strung along the ceiling. Bunches of willow branches dusted with glitter hung on the walls. Throw pillows piled in the corner.

It brought me to my knees and I laid there, fetal and sobbing until my pills kicked in.

In the grey light of morning, it had all gone. Wiping my eyes did not make it any better.

The lights still coiled into a wreath. Pillows mummified into a vacuum sealed bag. Branches resting in a pool of glitter.

Madness would be a relief. I could discount it as my imagination. The gesture, though, baby it’s you.

I am seeing the doctor later. I wanted to run it by you first though before I say anything.

Are there rules over there? Are you twiddling the dials on a celestial radio, looking for a song you need to hear?

Sitting here talking to a lump of Italian marble with your name carved into it makes as much sense as anything else these days. It all boils down to a binary decision.

Pills or poltergeist?

I will leave the things where they are tonight.

I hope it’s you rather than me.

OK, got to go. I love you.

I will look for you, baby.

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love, poetry, wildness, women

Hunting

kent_rogowski_bears_30

It is not

Hunters

With rifles precision sighted for accuracy

That kill the great wild beasts

Of the primal woods

It is circumstance

Comfort

Routine

Wielded by beautiful assassins

Who weep as they kill

Even then they do not die

They lumber into the deep

Woods where the

Silence is so thick

It absorbs their cries

Their wounds turn

Red then pink

Then white

But they never truly heal

But they breathe

Despite the pain

Would you call  them back

If you knew what hurts they carried?

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anxiety, beauty, creative writing, grief, loneliness, love, masculinity, maturity, nature, passion, poetry, sex, stoicism, Uncategorized, women, writing

The End Of The Affair (Quote)

I loved this film, beautifully filmed and devastating. This scene struck me in particular.
Sarah:
Love doesn’t end, just because we don’t see each other.
Maurice Bendrix:
Doesn’t it?
Sarah:
People go on loving God, don’t they? All their lives. Without seeing him.
Maurice Bendrix:
That’s not my kind of love.
Sarah:
Maybe there is no other kind.
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art, bath, beauty, creative writing, desire, emotion, erotic poetry, loneliness, love, lust, man, masculinity, passion, poetry, psychology, seduction, sensuality, short fiction, short stories, silence, social media, stoicism, strength, Uncategorized, wisdom, women, writing

Reflections in two mirrors

He sent them to be seen by her. That he had tangible proof of his commitment to his purpose and his growth. Each session, each rejection of easy but costly temptation was there in the heft of his pectorals, the lines and striations in his hip flexors and the way that the softness around his jawline was disappearing. He loved the reaction, knowing that she carried the coiling heat of want within her. A talisman against the bland sweep of days. He could not fake the look in his eyes, in a moment sourced in purest expression of his primal, sexual self. Such awareness and acceptance was rare, he had denied it before, but now he was comforted and protected by it.

She struggled with it. She knew the angles to offset the parts of herself that remained distasteful to her. Her body rebelled with the marks of time, but his reaction cast its  magic over her. A litany of informed praise, fuelled by want rather than need. Through him, she saw herself and it rubbed raw against everything else around her. A sweet pain, an eroticized grief that in its rejection, left deep scars that only he would be able to heal.

Now the mirror, the chain of static images connects them both and they pretend it is not there for the sake of sanity.

It remains though, and it would take so little yet so much to pick it up again and feel its comforting, powerful weight.

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dark places, desire, dominance, emotion, erotic poetry, erotica, grief, hunger, loneliness, love, lust, man, masculinity, men, nature, passion, pleasure, poetry, seduction, sensuality, separation, stoicism, Uncategorized, wildness, wisdom, women

Violent Delights

I tremble with the

Effort of control

Not monstrous

Nor misogynistic, although

The accusation is thrown,

Oftentimes in hindsight

I understand

Forgive it

Envy it sometimes

The light of

Self-knowledge

Makes my head hurt

Even as other aches

Rise like smoke

I would never hurt

Intentionally

I only come

When called

Invite me across

The threshold

But do not expect

Tender gifts in

Return

Too often given

Expensive

And I need

Time to heal

The ghosts

All offer

But never promise

They die as wholly

As my heart

But these violent delights

Remain

Too powerful

To be wielded

By anyone

I bear them

In lieu

When they leave

Like those

Who praised them

The loudest

A fall

Into

Silence

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anxiety, beauty, character, creative writing, dark places, desire, emotion, experience, fragile, grief, love, lust, masculinity, passion, pleasure, poetry, psychology, separation, stoicism, storm, strength, Uncategorized, wildness, women

Closed For The Season.

 

This agony

Tests my dimensions

Inspires a grand violence of spirit

Anger is an anaesthetic

That allows me to go through

The day

Numb and shivering

And how the world goes on

Ignoring my resentment

At the callow circumstances, fate swept

The house of cards from the table

How could a love so grand and operatic

Feel so prevalent on circumstance

That the blank, warm milk

Of domesticity

Tastes sweeter than the wine

I offered.

I have lost as much as I loved.

I insinuated you, opened every door

To my heart’s mansion

Opened up as you asked me to

But the cold wind blows

Even the fire has died

And there is no one here

To keep me warm

Let me shiver to death

Cursing the world.

Yet if you peered around the door

I would let you in

Dear god, how I would

Let

You

In

But for now, this house needs boards nailed to the windows

And I shall become a ghost,

Lost to some other place

Than here

 

 

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beauty, creative writing, desire, emotion, erotic poetry, experience, fragile, hunger, loneliness, love, lust, masculinity, men, passion, pleasure, poetry, seduction, sensuality, separation, storm, strength, surrender, touch, water, weather, wildness, wisdom, women, writing

Funeral for a chalk painting

On the stretch 

Of even, worn pavement

You drew looping, nonsensical

Loops of colours

Fingers tattooed with chalk dust

I liked how the hair

Hung in your face

A curtain rising

On the beautiful theatre 

Of your violet eyes

The picture drew me in

Then out

And I trusted that you were 

Gentle with me

Some deep wounds beneath

This armour

But the sketch grew

From present to past

To future

But we forgot about

The rain, didn’t we?

You needed shelter 

More than the need to

Preserve something as beautiful

As it was fragile

You washed your hands

The picture trickled away

Whispers

Smears, memories ingrained

In the treads of my shoes

The dust stayed

On my fingers

I keep it to remember you by

A mourner at a funeral

My name chiselled 

Into the headstone

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