I sincerely hope that you aren't reading the things
I've been writing about you, praying that the
one poem of mine you read about someone else
is the only time you've come here looking.

Because this, this is my soul ripped open and
weeping before God and everybody,
and the things I say here about you
would be better heard spoken to you aloud.

I don't want to fall in love with you, can't come
so far wrapped up in my own past and find
you waiting at the end of it, wanting to explore
secret paths in the woods and build castles in the sand.

I'm not the kind of person that believes in happily
ever after anymore, gave up on an inclusive life,
gave up on bliss, and yet here you are dancing
across my mind, the memory of us together that night.

I'm not there yet, not quite in love with you, not to
the point of me taking sustenance just from your smile,
but I'm quickly on my way I'm sure, otherwise I
wouldn't be so concerned with how many times I use
the I word instead of the You word when we talk.

Excellence indeed,
mind shorn of the heart
and it's incessant nagging.
You didn't ask why I drink
but I'll tell you anyway
because I want to.
Keep in mind though,
I'll never make the mistake
of asking why you drink.
Don't think me selfish
or magnificently uninterested,
it's just that I think I already know.
Maybe it's different for you,
presumptuous of me to assume.
Truthfully I'm not happy
with the ***** itself,
but it's the only thing
that takes me outside of myself,
the only thing that turns
off the terrible inner dialog.
Jesus Christ, all I need is one question, one sentence from you.
"What makes you think it meant nothing?"

In the inner labyrinths
when I  walk alone
a gazing benevolent  eye, I see,
the helix nebula of my origin
watching me, intently
beloved star, once a dazzling sun,
you refuse to go quietly
in to the night's ferocity
mother dear, in your core
undying love still burns
singing my favorite old lullaby.

Let me tell you a secret that I've never told anyone before. Here is the key to deciphering my own personal Rosetta Stone.

I can only ever write about things that have the most potential to hurt me by doing so from hindsight, or placing the events into another time and place, speaking from outside of myself.

So it is that I write of you now, as the wind whispers through dunes in this lonely, though not empty place. I am writing from the deepest recesses of my heart, where it is always twilight in a desert. Looking back now, I can see what seems like irony in the way the evening progressed. You needed an uplifting spirit you said, and I came following. I spent all night trying to pull you out of a sadness that I know well, and knew that it was a futile gesture. Since then I've been trying my best to forget how it felt to dance with you in a living room, for once in my life, completely unabashed. We were both drunk by then, and of course, both emotionally compromised. I shouldn't have been surprised how easily it was that our lips found each other, but I was. After hoping to the point of giving up hope, I walked into a mirage and found you there. It doesn't really bother me as much as I thought it would, believing that the night meant nothing to you. Even so, holding you for just that short time, means everything to me. I can still taste you, smell you, feel your body in my hands, and remember exactly the shade of your gray-green eyes. The irony perhaps is that I came to you that night to try and provide comfort, and somehow, it's you who pulled me up and out of the dark. Though we have no future, I'll carry that night with me forever, and when I'm alone with myself, as I am now, those memories you gave me will be enough.

Dearheart, where have you gone?
Where is the girl who rode the bus with me all those years ago?

Tears don't stain a screen the way they do paper,
but even If I wrote this with a pen I'd have nowhere to send it.

I'm doing everything I can to forget you honey, but I know that I'll never be able to. How could I, when you own so much of my heart?

You've left pieces of yourself behind;
strands of hair, a pair of shorts, a shirt, your smell upon my pillow.

Tell me now, memory of my love, how now shall I continue without regret at what ought to have been?

How may I lay next to another,
and not think of you in your need?
To the more prosaic, how can I taste another woman without wondering what other fire may consume her after all the terrible things you've taught me about needs?

You have died to me, and I mourn your passing. And a part of me...perhaps the best part, died with you.