I can still remember when I didn’t feel this anguish.  When a day was just a day, boring or exciting, or maybe with some small or large upset.  Life was good because it was supposed to be good, things would work out, love and security was there all the time.  Is it even possible to feel that way again?  I’m through the looking glass, the world has changed, the air has changed colour.  The daily rhythm is a cycle of pain and struggle and acceptance, love is a traitor and hope is a stranger, and l breathe longing like I used to breathe air.

Heartbeat

It’s a magical incantation
a vital rhythm
the slowest heartbeat in the world
but the most reliable
one hour
each pulse lasts
once a week
and in that rushing
of life’s blood
we soar.
The iron law
forbids three things
that forbidding like
a pentagram drawn
in salt creates
the space for
everything.

Loneliness

It’s not about dying alone.  You were right, everybody dies alone.

It’s about this moment right now.  At 4am.  2am was just as bad.

It’s this aching emptiness between my arms, where my lover should fit.  This parched feeling on my skin, like every nerve ending is straining outwards to meet a touch that isn’t coming.  The barrenness of my tears.  Meaningless sorrow, here by myself.  Nobody is coming.  I am speaking to no one, crying out to no one.  It doesn’t matter that my desperation ratchets up a notch each day.  It doesn’t affect anyone but me, and I’m just an unheard voice in an empty space.  It doesn’t matter what the words are where there’s nobody to hear.  It doesn’t matter what’s written when there is no reader.  It just doesn’t matter.

Continue reading “Loneliness”

Execution

My love for you
is like a child
innocent and trusting
fresh and full of promise
in its eyes all the wonders that
could be;
approaching the wedding party
with a bomb strapped to
its chest, coming to us
for help and salvation
trusting we will save it
and I must give the order
to shoot.

The sculptor

One corner of my soul
is pinned to the hour we
last spoke, and the
other to the moving
present and I am
stretched so thin
I cast no shadow. Your
silence washes the
colour out of my days
and pain hollows me
hour by hour
like a sculptor carving
a bowl.

Dawn

Another dawn.
I love the dawn
sunrise, birdsong
a fresh beginnning.
Approached from the right side
from the side of sleep,
of night,
the awakening of the body,
the quickening of the pulse,
a transformation and a beginning
the dawn is a beautiful thing.
But
approached from wakefulness
from nights weary journey
into the darkness of days
with a body worn
from worry
another dawn is
another failure.

Moving on

I don’t really know what marriage means, but if I’m married to anyone, I’m married to you. One person can’t own another, but I know I belong to you. Whatever love means, whatever ball of need and want and fear and joy and giving and taking that is, it comes from and goes back to that place in my heart where you are.
So now I’m supposed to move on, carrying you with me and leaving the best part of me behind with you. Move on – to where and to what, and why? With you in every step and every breath, with you wound around each rib. With you seeping into every crevice in my mind, in places I don’t even know exist. With every touch an echo of yours and every moment missing one thing. When making love feels like a memory and every time I close my eyes I see you, the way you looked when I was moving in you. Sometimes when I open my eyes too.
And with every moment of affection, when someone looks at me with loving eyes I feel I should explain: ah, you are beautiful, and you warm me, but, you see, I am deeply and secretly wed, I am taken; every part of me that is here with you is more deeply hers; all our moments are like shadows of that happiness; and on those terms – do you still want me?
Who could say yes? And so – where would I be moving on to?