Everything Fun is Forbidden

You took everything that morning…
I called you on it. Asked you if you were moving out.
You laughed.
I could only look at my feet then.
“Out of your closet?” you said and laughed again.
“I didn’t take everything,” you said, “I left the comfy shirt.”
“I… have to get a lot of dry cleaning done,” you said.
I heard the hesitation, slight as it was.
You were moving out.
And I was speechless in convincing you to stay.
That was our last night together.
The last night I would scratch your head while you fell asleep.
The last night watching reruns, getting lost.
The last night I would curl into the bend of your arm.
The last night I would press my back into your chest
to count out the tempo of our hearts beating separately.
That should have been my first clue…

It became obvious when I leaned up to kiss you goodbye.
You turned and my lips found purchase.
Against the rough of your beard.
A stray tear made its way out and away.
You never noticed.
My door was already closing.
And the last thing I heard you say
was see you after eternity.

Eternity sways in a corner.
Empty.
Next to a comfy shirt.

Sometimes you’re just never good enough.

There is nothing ever set in stone.
Though stones may be set
and exchanged for promises.
Kept silently.
Sometimes they are empty.
And neither knows why.

An action, carelessly tossed out
into the cool nights of October
can be carried off by the slightest breeze.
That sudden gust
becomes a whirlwind, unbridled and wild.
And then all is lost
from what we once called heaven.

So what’s the weight of a wandering heart?
Is it measured in the light beneath me
showing I am less than I was 10 days ago?
Can it be calculated in the curious eyes
coming into consciousness of the ways of the world?
Will it display in years that once felt worked and earned,
but now taste bitterly wasted?
All crumbled by the hands
of longing for more.
And wanting.

Was I always destined for make believe?
To stand idly by and watch myself disappear
to the life that you wanted?
I said goodbye to the old days that morning.
But I never thought that meant
a farewell to my smile.
To the passing of iridescent joy in my eyes.
To the idea that forever existed.

It doesn’t.
There is no forever for the fickle.
And your place was never by my side.

There is so much…
so many things better
and far more worthy
for you
than me
out on the horizon.

Follow that vermillion afterglow.
Find yourself in the warmth and
float away.

(via cordeliagablewrites)

Life seems to move slower
when vision is clear.
The scratches you cut across
my corneas have been wiped clean
and now
I can see where my next step will fall, love.
I am permanent.
And you are tangled in the clutches
of my heartstrings forever.
But you’ve squandered.
You pushed and poked and
those long bone fingers of yours
just can’t live against my ribs any longer.
I could scream from the highest points
that I will love you for always, in all ways,
and your back would stay prone.
And your face would press the soil.
Like you were dead already.
But that’s something you don’t fear anyhow.
And something I can’t hold fear for either.
At least, not anymore.
You see, in death, there is chance for new life.
And these eyes will remain unwavering.

There is too much to read
between the lines that blur you.
Your words say one thing and
breath forces voice to speak them.
But your actions, or lack there of,
the inconsistency that lies within,
shows me who the boss is
in this whole production.
My desire for the knowledge
of your everything
is fast becoming a fiend,
bigger and stronger,
as the days grow endless.
While I can’t be with you,
I’m aching and nothing.
Each second without you here,
whispering devotions
of sweetness and light
down my way,
I die and die and die.
I am a green-eyed monster.
I will never be pacified.
And I know that forever
I will stand for nothing
but to chase after your shadow.

What I see are
my dirty knees
knelt before you.
Just like you like them.
My mouth awaiting your invitation.
What I see is
my body folding forward
accepting all advances
without question of intent.
But you know… I’d bend over backwards for you too.
I think of your fuck.
Of you moving inside me.
Slow, hard, steady.
I think of your hands.
Of fingers coiling hair,
the twist and pull back.
The force of obedience.
And then the take.

Every blink flashes scenes of a different
possible life with you, my stranger.
The roots of an unknown future
so rapidly wind around and overtake
the old, existing life and memories.
I am letting this happen.
I am starving from this curiosity.
The rush that comes over me
from hearing the sound of your voice
renders me restless and I long to feel
the strength of your arms surrounding me.
I want to feel the softness of your belly
against my belly.

I never bargained for this to happen.
And yet, my hands are red.
I have caught myself in the act of loving.
Without admittance, I am making this happen.
Making it real for us both.
Can I see myself with you,
withered and tired and old?
Yes. Sometimes I can.
Most times I can.
We speak so much of the same language
so it seems we could never tire…
at least of one another.

What I am doing right now:
Desperately trying not to visualize
the old movie we are watching,
the sound of the rain beating down our door,
the scent of the cracking fire at our backs,
or what your whiskers might feel like
pressing against my thigh where your head rests.

What should I be doing instead:
Not thinking about what your mouth might taste like.

Not thinking about how small my hand would feel encased in yours on a night out.

Not thinking about the long talks we would have about nothing special over meals that have grown cold because they just don’t fucking matter because I was sitting across from you.

Not thinking about the trails of fire your lips and fingers would leave behind after we make love.