Some musings from an ill-conceived life, well-written
I'll admit it.
I am drawn to the torturous nature of our connection.
The strife and struggle that we pursue; feigning betterment,
the cracks and chasms that result, define tragic beauty.
I crave saga...
and you do too.
The irony is that the one for whom the saga spins,
thinks this could never be about him - while alternate egos
are sure my pining belongs to them.
The plot thickens and the story only deepens - increasing its aesthetic value
and its emotional hold on us.
I don't fear your demons; we've met before.
The problem we face is that your demons wont let you see mine. They cast a veil so that you can't see the battles I wage.
If you did, you'd recognize that while yours were forged of pressure, tension and demand - my demons were molded of deprivation, hunger and strife.
If they met, they wouldn't find strength and grow too large for us to tame.
If they met, we might no longer need to vanquish them; they might shake hands, sit down, and find peace together.
If we let them.
The inevitable, ironic twist is looming.
The day is coming when you'll finally have convinced me how good enough you really are not -
That will, of course, be the same day that the fog that's been hindering you lifts and you'll finally see all that you, that we, are and can be.
But by then my calloused skin will be too thick; my defenses well-honed. I'll be too far gone.
And your consolation will be the pat-on-the-back that you get to give yourself because, at least you were right all along.
You were never good enough...
if only you could have seen how you were.
I want to fall into you the way we started to. The way we began with those cant-not-smile-at-you dates. The way we began with looking into each other's hearts with every kiss. The way we didn't want to leave the haven of each other's arms. The way that coming down from starry rooftops meant a descent into reality, where we would respond to fear instead of floating above it.
We deserved those weeks of smiles, hours of sex, feeding one another with take-out, and laughter; sharing cinema and slivers of ourselves reserved for this kind of infantile intimacy. Suspended from judgment, reflecting excitement instead of anxiety in each other eyes.
Instead, we backed away from the edge, we refused to fall, the wounds from previous lovers' leaps too fresh, not yet healed.
The way we began ended too soon.
...walking in gratitude, seeking only light, with an abundance of love pouring out of my pockets;
I find resonance in rock, water and roots and recognize myself in the reverberation of place.
Drawing images with words, I choose decoys over deflection, so, just in fair warning; I cannnot be trusted... yet.
You see, I've fooled even myself by keeping my hands so busy - shoved deeply in those bottomless pockets or extended, full of offering - never ready to receive.
Keeping my hands so busy - painting, building, sharing - to make you feel, without letting you feel me.
I've fooled even myself; into believing that giving love, sharing words, healing the world makes me open. But if my hands are always full when I extend them, then they are by definition not open and there is no room for you to put your hand in mine.
I do not yet know how to bare my palms.
So do not trust me yet; though I seem giving and whole, do not trust me until our shared laughter has bounced off of walls and back down our throats, into our hearts where I may let the idea of us rest for a moment.
This is the only circuitous route that I know of - and perhaps its from the inside-out, with inescapable laughter, that I may place my open hands upon my stomach and heart and let you love me.
