The best love, it turns out,
is simple
Unassuming

Meeting you in the same place every day
Quietly nudging in the direction of abundance
Considering you know more than you think you do
A hint is not enough
The words only say so much
When you don't follow through
I don't blame you
It's what you're used to

It’s soft sunlight boldly making the pillow its own, sparkling the hairs of your beard and the chain beating against your throat. I swear, I love your heartbeat. And your laugh. It is the sort of laugh that grows through a crack. A beam of sunshine stretching its back. It's heating an extra *** of extra hot water for your bath and it is the flowing stream steaming jewelry on my neck. It is both the arms carrying you to the tub and the yellow juice of the flowers soaking that soften your legs

What was it like before?
Because it's sweet now
The sticky honey of staying in bed all day
And actually listening to each other
I wonder if I will ever really leave the bedroom we share in my mind But the view I shared with you was just that
Something to see through

Love doesn't speak on all that
It pulls me into a dark room when the party is still going
Somehow touching me everywhere at once
It laughs with me while I laugh at myself  
Reminds me - I don't need to do all that
It doesn't take it back
It doesn't even start strong
But that leaves us with somewhere to go
No answers, just moving it around in your hands
Sitting quietly in the corner of the room, of your thoughts
Watching you without intake
Just to see what you'll do
Always a question on pursed lips
Impressed, as always
Giving you the best one,
and more importantly
The benefit of the doubt

You did not deserve that
Not when you wouldn't say a word
Not when you disappeared
I was always here
Giving you space and asking another question
Hoping you take care of yourself
If that's what you said you'd do
It asks more of you
Even when you never
Return the favor
Faking interest between
Larger displays of great love
How long have you been saving that up?
I realized I'd much rather love myself
Than spend one more minute with that sort
My love does not abandon you
It makes sure you know
(I'm here, always)



But not anymore

There, in the
tide pool, dappled by
the sun, is birth and death,
and the spark that continues.
It leaves mankind in a wake of regret.
What have I to do with the albatross
Or sea lion?
I can but write, while they fly and roar.
I gaze upon the Pacific from this rock,
all its mysteries and grandeur.
I am inferior, while it forever reigns with
every wave and break of light.

I have yet to face the mirror
And ask to grow old
So, how should I begin?

Begin wilting into a vintage skin:
Gaunt, creased and thin
Like the last sinking snow
Of a hushed winter.

And what of my hair?
Whiskers that once
Gathered as a forest:
Wild, viscous
And well-nourished
But now snipped
To the skin,

So, should I now begin?

Shall I face the staring mirror
And sing in a whisper;

“Can I yet grow old? Oh,
Let me shrink into the earth
As I exhaust and go bald,
And let me age into a smile
That no longer holds mirth.”,

So, should I offer
My permission?

And throw my voice
Into the reflection
And patiently listen.

.
I lay here coiled foetal
in my cold cot of nightmare,
the candle that canutes the dark
has long since dimmed and died.

In but a few short hours
the **** will welcome the Dawn,
In but a few short hours
my wracked shivering frame will rise.

And frozen in the deepest night
I stare into the middle distance,
my eyes daring the still darkness
to intrude on my personal space.
But my minds eye blinks once
and I travel far far away,
back through the lonely years
to my tender sixteenth winter.
Directed and ordered to leave
I faced the cold day with all hope,
as gambolling in my ears,
voices of angry authority play.

The cities arms embraced me,
wrapped me in the mantle of adulthood.
A cooper? A Baker? An Iron-smith?
Nay! For me the cloak of the Fool.
And the Court of a Lord called,
capricious capering for entertainment.
Music. Poetry. Stories. Vitriol.
From song to spit spanning an eve.
I amuse the transient courtiers,
fake love, fake hate in delicate balance,
kiss the feet then stab the heart
and the duplicity is just an act.

In but a few short hours
the night will welcome them all.
In but a few short hours
the darkness will claim their souls.

Saints and shadows now sleep
in soft warm beds of feather-down,
the bones of feasting lay cold
like the dead ash in the inglenooks,
and their minds wander through dreams
that no scribe may steal.

The focus of my madness fades
as the horizon is neatly sliced
by a shiver from the sun,
my eyes watch the darkness retreat.
I release a long-held breath
that I stole at the Dusk of a day,
of a yesterday that matters no more,
to embrace the new day with hope.

I confess.
To the moment of Dawn:
I said the duplicity is just an act.
I lied.
And now … I may sleep.


© Pagan Paul (14/02/21)

home
is your
midnight lullaby
dripping like honey
from the back of your throat
and your
anxious tears
dripping like sand
from the top of an hourglass

home
is the
perfume of orange blossoms
passing through my lungs
as we run through the orchard
and the
rotting smell of garbage
passing through the streets
as we climb onto the school bus

home
is the
sweet taste of dates
mixed with sugary syrup
kneaded into perfect pastries
and the
metallic taste in your mouth
mixed with the guilt in my stomach
kneaded into a sticky dough

home
is the
falling of ocean waves
over our heads
as we scream-laugh through the water
and the
falling of bombs
over our city
as we sit together in silence

oh
how I wish
I could simply return
home
but
home
no longer exists
because home is
you

pain is temporary
still I crave its fuel
feeding hunger, burning
through darkness,
wafer moon teases
naked trees
blanching sleek limbs
running away
from desperate crowds
that sting my senses,
from curses singeing
midnight nerves,
I am
a warrior
in No Man's Land

there would be no sleep
this night
wracked with reckoning
futile cup of decaf cooling
minutes become
memories murmuring
recriminations reverberate
bowed head nodding
over quiescent keyboard
as vivid visions vanish
one
        into
                another
hesitant hours hovering
errors echoing
in void of forgiveness
aching agony of awareness
becomes brutal
he receives respite
as night became day
he understood what truth
could be known
he has only himself
and the day before him

and so he lay down
and so his eyes close
in the light of morning