love – Page 2 – Oceans of Mine

Haunted

It's never
"I don't love you"

And it's never
"I don't care"

It's always
"I crave you"
"I need you"
"I want you"

Forever
"Please, baby"
"C'mon, baby"
"Why not, baby?"

I'd do so much more for me and you
I've done so much for me and you
I'm just asking that you do
This one thing for us, too

And it's hard,
But I will dare

And it's hard,
Much more than "maybe"

But, step out of comfort, baby
We'll have much more than "maybe"
Love's far deeper than just caring
And those close to me are daring

I'm just asking that you do
This next thing for me and you

I can't keep pulling you along
Can't keep up this lonely song
But if you force this solitaire
Please release me from this snare

And I'll step out of comfort, baby
We'll have so much less than "maybe"
Love's so much more than wanting
So much more than two souls' haunting

Running In Circles

So, the obvious 'comes apparent;
Does this change 'nything in truth?
For our friendship leaves the aberrant
‘Fore I come home to Duluth

And I found another lover
And your soul and mine depart
And my freedom, I recover
And I find again my heart

There was never any answer in the minds rejecting love
There was never any truth in those blue skies, so far above
There was only I and you, two lonely souls stood, side-by-side
There were only two hearts calling, though but one love could abide

And I found this other lover
And your soul and mind depart
And my freedom, I recover
And I offer him my heart

So, the obvious 'comes apparent,
And all life is changed, in truth
And a friendship dies, inherent,
For each choice made in Duluth

But, I found my only lover
Ne’er his soul and mine depart
And our freedom, we’ll recover
As I share with him my heart

There was never any answer in the minds rejecting love
There was never any truth in those blue skies, so far above
There are only I and you, together: souls here, hand-in-hand
There are only two hearts ‘twining, exploring love and life, unplanned

Prisms of Love

Don’t you know?

I long to feel the skin upon your face,
The brush of whiskers nettled on your chin
And when I reach to touch, you to embrace
I find that I am forced to reach within

For - don’t you know?

I tremble all the day and all night long
My body eager, vibrating as you strum
The heartstrings of such a familiar song
Your fingers not yet on flesh; still, for you I thrum

And I cannot foresee another way
Than dancing deeply in a world unknown
So I will live and love another day
That one day, maybe soon, this depth be shown

That, maybe one day soon, I will be yours
And you’ll be mine, in body too;
That one day soon, we’ll dance through doors
In ethereal worlds we’ll live, both I and you

So, don’t you know?

My heart is bound to yours and lost to me
It’s yet my mind you kiss, that you must woo
And I, lost forever in this fantasy
Somehow made real, this life, by your love true

And - you must know!

Forever, in this time
That you are yours, and also I am thine;
That I belong to me, and you are mine!
That we are ours, forever-love sublime

The Justice of Love

…If I ever hurt you, do not let me be until there is some kind of justice in it.

We make our own justice, those of us who love and leave love — for whatever reasons.

Is not the absence of a loved one justice enough?

Is not the torture of having left, of being blind to our lover’s ways, of missing their movements, the flow of their minds, the smell of their skin, the union of bodies and minds and souls —

Is this not justice enough?

Justice will find you; so mourn as you will the loss of one loved, who loved you true, who loved you until the day of her final parting, who thought more of you than of any other being, who loved you more than any other soul —

Whose soul still loves you,

Whose soul still craves you,

Whose soul still aches for you,

Whose soul is clambering to find you, anew —

But whose mind and heart and body could no longer bear the lingering absence of you.

Seeds of Truth and Love

I once loved a man more than all the stars in the universe, more than nearly every cell in my own body, save for a few.

I once trusted that man’s reason more than all the reason of all the wisest philosophers in all of history, more than nearly every scrap of reason in my own mind, save for perhaps two.

I loved that man more than my own children, which drove them both a little mad – and which has certainly driven me more than a little mad.

I still love him; and that may be absolutely mad… but, once one has gone mad, can one ever truly be cured of madness? The psychologists deny the possibility; my friends insist upon the necessity; and who am I to say? I have gone mad and I love him still, love myself enough to love my madness and the journey into and out of it, thus far.

And I love our children more than him, I think (unless, in my madness, I am lying; though I think not); and I love myself more than him, certainly (for I have become transformed).

Once, in my consternation over a beautiful film and its profound message, he told me that most writers do not know the messages they deliver; that most writers are asleep; and I imagined it to be as if their minds simply catch onto meanings like seeds improbably planted in the ground, having been carried on the wind or upon some creature’s coat or in their stool.

Once, I believed him entirely.

I may still believe it, to a point; but, coming to write with increasing frequency, coming to know of more conscious writers, I am certain that, though we may not know the full implications of our words — just as we cannot know the full implications of our actions when we take them — there are more writers, more artists, more people who know at least something of their depths.

Perhaps I will find, one day, that my own belief is just as faulty, just as ill-based and fantastical as his own (which is not to say his is any less beautiful in its meaning, as I have always found it so).

Perhaps I will find that it does not even matter whether we are speaking in subconscious intelligence or that we know, at least in part, the depths we evoke. For now, all I can know or do is to write with simplicity the truths I hold and bear, the knowledge I have found and created, the worlds I have seen and imagined… and watch as those seeds grow.

One. Two. Me.

1.

That day when you came to stop me from saying “Goodbye, I love you.”

That night when you picked me up from the airport, when – again – I wanted it to be over.

Those lingering embraces. Those passionate kisses. Those heart-felt words – from both of us.

That could have been forever.

Don’t tell me I made things up, that I exaggerated emotion, that I took things beyond their meaning. Don’t try to convince me that I took things out of context when the only thing I took out of context was myself from the context of your vicinity.

Don’t tell me I’m immature in love when I have the capacity to love beyond the space of a few miles, beyond the finite moment of right-now.

We could have been infinite, beyond all time-and-space. We could have been epic, magical. We could have been of the things true love and gods are made.

2.

Those nights-after-nights and days-after-days when you “didn’t expect to fall in love,” “to feel so much,” for me to stay.

Those months-long epic conversations when I explained my inner workings, my likes and dislikes, when I wrote books to you in long, verbose dialogues that you repeatedly did not hear, listen to or understand.

The fading patience; the increasing bitterness; the overbearing misery amidst your blissful ignorance.

Did you really not see, understand anything of me? No; nothing. You took only what you wanted, needed, and disregarded the rest, left it for posterity, thinking – having had my love and devotion for years upon years – it would last indefinitely.

When I told you I wanted nothing more to do with men, was that not explanation enough?

It’s not that we had nothing. It’s that it was repeatedly disregarded, discarded in lieu of your past, in lieu of so many things you chose poorly that sapped your soul until I came along and filled you up again.

It’s not that we couldn’t have come back together. It’s that you somehow ceased caring about what brought us together in the first place; and somehow, you expected me to care about how I brought you back to who you are now… when I have always told you I preferred the man you made of yourself before we first met.

Me)

Go into the desert.

Sing.

Dance.

Walk.

Capture beautiful moments and share them with the world, with friends, with the wind, with no one at all.

Be.

Write everything, and love every stinging thing like so many spines upon so many cacti, guarding what precious flesh lies beneath with so much fought-for life-giving waters.

Forgive even those who bit you, stung you, hurt you, maimed you; for you are forever-forgiving, forever-giving.

Love. Again.

Let this time be a lesson; and, this time, find that wolf, that coyote, that mountain lion, that bobcat, that bear, that eagle that will forever-love you, whom you can forever-love-give-love-receive-love-amen.

It’s time:

Kiss the sands and the dry earth.

Swim and sail and surf in those big, beautiful, blue waves.

Go. Wherever. Life takes you.

Be your heart.

Bring the rains to barren lands; and dance, laugh, kiss; let the waters wash every pain clean.

Be forever-good-and-loving.

Indulge your every desire, dream and wish.

Find your fantasies in life and love, and live them fully, for so few will leave their pains and morbidity to bring childish dreams to reality.

Do.

And dare, as you always dare.

This is your life, your posterity.

Bring about me.

Still True

(tho singed and lost within the smoke of recent fires)

I love you

I know I say it all the time,
(I love you)
but I do

I love your smile, and
the way your head tilts back
when you get self-conscious,
when you want my lips to drink your neck,
when you want my teeth sunk in your skin,
when you want my heart, my flesh, and then...

(I love you)
I love your eyes:
cinnamon stones sparkling amidst silken skin,
hanging flecks of perfection
singing to my poet's soul again and again and again...

I love your shyly-arrogant laugh:
full of knowledge, edged with pain
(I love you),
tainted with the uncertainty of your certainty
of your endless days

I love you

I love you for your brilliant mind
that you, nonetheless, restrain;
that you, from mistakes, disdain;
that you, come disheartened companions, refrain

I love you

I love you

I love you;
for your beauty is forever,
for your heart is ever pure,
for your love is as helpless as mine,
for your body always wants mine

I love you;
and it lasts
through time and space,
through trials and frustrations,
through foreverness and vulnerabilities...

I love you

I always have
I always do

And, oh, how I miss you...!

The One That Never Happened

He was one of Twenty-Six’s childhood friends.

He was beautiful, too – not in the same seductive way, but rather, in a way that made her stare, enamored, attempting for hours to comprehend him, his ways, his beauty… his pain. And, moreover, his way through pain

She felt it like a strong punch in her gut, but one that did not hurt even if it took her breath away. It happened every time she looked at him, every time the huge orbs of his eyes found hers. It was like waking up suddenly, like looking through some chasm punched through the universe into an alternate reality.

She was sure she loved Nineteen; and she was equally sure he did not love her… except, perhaps, in that genuinely-good and gentle way he loved all people. Except that, sometimes… maybe… she saw some glint in his eyes, felt his hugs linger longer than a friend’s should….

All she knew was that she loved him – every time she saw him, every time she thought of him, every time she saw his work, every time she went near his shop. She loved him, and she would happily accept nothing more than a pleasant friendship just to be able to spend some amount of time with him, just to see him interact with others, just to perhaps be there for him in some time of need.

She used to have fantasies of being with him, fantasies she burned like paper in her mind, with nothing more passionate surviving than the momentary glint of a heartfelt wish as the thought drifted up and away on the currents of her mind. Nothing but fragile, black carbon would remain of her secret desires.

Still, she loved him.

It had been years since she had met Twenty-Six, passionate years filled with tumultuous interactions that occasionally filled her with so much love she spilled again and again like a river onto a broad delta; passionate years filled more often with so much pain that it felt like the earth itself had been sucked dry of every drop of rain.

She hadn’t known they were friends, when she met Nineteen. When she learned, she held it secret from both men, not wishing to be the bridge between them; not wishing to have either as the bridge between them all. She loved them both for different reasons… and, for different reasons and at different times, her love for one seemed more sane, more possible, less difficult even in times of difficulty than her love for the other.

Who cared, anyway, whom she loved? Would either of them change his way towards her – except to try to protect her, to protect the other from his potential interest in her, leaving her bereft and even more alone than she was now, caught somewhere in-between? At least this way, in her silence, she could preserve her love for them both, could swing, unnoticed and unspoken, from one to the other as her own heart dictated its present need.

She wondered, too, if they would understand; if anyone would understand. She didn’t know why, but she loved broken men… perhaps – she realized when she considered Nineteen – it was because she loved superheroes. She loved the broken man turned whole again as she was a broken woman become whole again in a new way, like an intricately-beautiful mosaic made of pieces of shattered pottery.

Nineteen had something of that, far more than Twenty-Six had. Nineteen did not give up; he kept making beauty, kept finding beauty, kept being beautiful and reflecting the beauty of his friends, family, acquaintances, and of all the earth in his art. Kept risking everything.

To Thirteen, this was the most exquisite thing on the earth: Nineteen was like a mosaic made of broken mirrors that only became more interesting, more fantastical with every new shard.

And, though Thirteen knew she saw this in him, she wondered, always, if Nineteen saw anything of the same in her quiet, shy attempt at polished presence.

Twenty-Six, however, was like an ancient Japanese bowl, broken and mended with gold… except that Twenty-Six never wanted his gold seen; he was too ashamed of having broken at all. Yet, Thirteen loved him for all that he was and boggled at his need for self-deceit….

Perhaps you do not yet know, but it is impossible to love someone who does not love himself. Or herself. It is impossible because they will reject every overture of true love; every gesture will be a great pain reminding them of all the things they’ve done (or thought they’ve done) for which they deserve punishment, not love. They will, at the greatest points of receiving love that they deem undeserved, respond with such fierce cruelty towards the one who loves them as to make themselves all the more undeserving, mounting cruelty upon cruelty, present upon past, the new love paying the price for everyone’s sins.

This, Thirteen bore for years with Twenty-Six, as with plenty of men before him. If only she loved enough, she believed, they would love her back; they would wake from their nightmares and find her there, loving; and they would be grateful, would love her in return. Even just a little bit.

But it never happened.

This was what Thirteen was coming to see in her life when she first encountered Nineteen.

She was single, pushed away by yet another conflict with Twenty-Six. And so, for so many reasons, she found herself careful when expressing herself to Nineteen, cautious like a feral kitten who wants nothing more than to love and be loved, who wants nothing more than a good scratch behind the ears that would inevitably and very quickly melt her into a puddle of purrs and forever-loyal adoration, despite her wild upbringing.

She was certain she gave away everything she felt when her eyes found his, every time. She was sure her eyes melted into great, blue pools as soon as Nineteen spoke to her, was sure he saw her offer her vulnerability up as a gift every time, which he took gently and never abused, always handed back after a warm exchange of words, and she felt herself touched with a glint of gold.

She went to see him this time to say goodbye.

She suffered with the knowledge that she was leaving, suffered because she loved him, suffered because she wanted to tell him everything, this time; to tell him that she loved him even if he didn’t love her in return; to tell him that no matter where she was on the planet, she would watch for him and his successes on social media, would be within reach, would always admire and love him for his gentle, honest ways and for his eternal positivity.

She wanted so much to reach out, sometimes, to just kiss him simply, to express her heart wordlessly. But nobody does that. Certainly, girls don’t do that.

She walked into his store, glanced around when she found no one near the entrance. ‘Well, why not?’ she asked herself silently.

“Nineteen?” she called into the other room.

He peeked his head around the corner, saw her and smiled warmly. “Hi! Thirteen, how are you?”

Thirteen beamed, as she always did when she received one of his precious smiles, given readily to all who entered his domain. “Hi! I’m good; how are you?” And she walked over to him, then found herself embraced, as he always did with her, as he did with all of his friends who came to visit or to buy something. Thirteen returned the embrace affectionately, squeezed herself tightly to him, breathed in his scent; then deliberately released Nineteen’s tall, muscular body.

His eyes flashed merrily and he grinned, “Thanks, I’m great. Working on a new project and it’s going really well. What’s new with you?”

Thirteen glanced at the ground near his feet and frowned momentarily. “I’m going to France for a bit. Traveling; I can’t pass it up.” She looked up into his wide, questioning eyes. “I wanted to say goodbye.”

Nineteen watched her with gentle curiosity, his eyes concerned but his voice reassuring. “Well, that sounds great! So, what’s wrong about it?”

I’ll miss you, she almost blurted. It’s stupid, but I’m in love with you.

She held her words, gazed at him silently as truths swam thick and quickly through her mind like a school of fish. She chose the easiest one.

“I’ll miss you,” she confessed.

Nineteen’s concerned look softened and he rested a hand reassuringly on her arm, “Oh, but you’ll be back. You’re sweet… and you’ll share everything, I’m sure. It’ll be beautiful. Where are you going?”

Thirteen managed to rattle off her anticipated travel plans while scolding herself severely for not being fully open with him. Just tell him the truth! she chided herself.

“…Nineteen…” she said, finally, looking into his eyes. “I’m in love with you.”

She paused, awaiting a reaction, awaiting something that would give her a clue as to her next confession. He was surprised, but only faintly; there was something of fear in his demeanor, and yet, he stood unmoving, generally accepting her words and their gravity with incredible patience.

“I’ve been in love with you for a while; you must know it. I can’t help it; and I wouldn’t want to help it if I could: you’re too handsome, too sweet, too gentle, too….”

Thirteen’s words trailed off as she watched his eyes change, softening somewhat, yet tainted now with some deep and unfamiliar intensity.

Thirteen inhaled sharply and felt her breath stop short, her body reading the look in Nineteen’s eyes fractions of seconds before her mind coagulated a conscious meaning. She felt a flood rush to her head, and his hands raised to her hair, gently pulled her close, and he kissed her.

It felt to her like all time stopped, that she moved in rhythm, in response without conscious volition, and like no conscious acquiescence was needed. She kissed him with the relaxed openness of floating in a still, warm pool under a bright sun; he kissed her with such measured intensity that every subsequent word became unnecessary as, spilling from his mouth to hers, he responded and explained all of the unspoken depths they had held, for years, having kept a friendly distance between them.

It was a conversation that would have taken days, had words been used. It was a conversation in which he acknowledged everything she had said and felt and meant in those few brave sentences that she pulled from her chest and gave to him. He kissed her, and in that kiss, kept everything outside of them away, kept every possible distraction far beyond the realm of interruption, this moment too important to stop and start again.

And, when he stopped kissing her, some minutes later, Nineteen looked taller, stronger; and Thirteen glowed with revived peace.

His eyes were clear, certain, when he looked down at her sparkling blue-grey eyes. His arms rested easily on her shoulders; his long fingers remained entangled in her hair.

“Don’t go,” he uttered, and the words sounded like a breath, like a whisper, like those quiet urgings spoken in one’s mind that we so often don’t listen to; that never punish us for not listening.

Thirteen’s eyes fluttered; her mouth twitched in stunned half-protest. Her full lips parted to speak, and he cut her response short.

“Don’t go. Stay here with me; you can move in upstairs. I’ll give you your own space if you want it, or you can sleep with me; whatever you like. You can come travel with me; I have several trips planned this year. They’re not in Europe, but… if you want to….”

What started as confidence grown of a true connection faltered only enough to give Thirteen the respectful choice of her independence.

“…If you want to, I would love to have you with me.”

Nineteen’s gaze shifted from a respectful request, from a plea, to a gentle sales pitch. His eyes twinkled as he spoke:

“I’ll teach you all I know. You can write, take photographs; we’ll explore the towns…. It will be nice to have someone travel with me.”

Thirteen listened, thunderstruck. Her eyes watched Nineteen’s glinting, merry brown eyes as he spoke; her heart pounded, demanding the obvious answer, threatening to jump out of her chest if she did not speak the answer verbally.

“Are… are you serious?” It wasn’t that she didn’t believe him; it was that she no longer trusted reality.

“Yes.” Nineteen smiled gently at her and shifted his hands to hold her jawline in his large palms. “Yes, I’m serious. Will you stay? Say you’ll say yes.”

Her breath stole the reply before she could think: “Yes. Yes…”

Thirteen blinked like she was waking up from a long and traumatic dream, terrible only because everything had been just slightly wrong; and this… this was reality.

“Yes, yes; yes, I’ll come with you. Yes, I’ll stay with you. Yes, oh my god, yes.”

Beyond Reality

Sometimes, I wonder if he’s not the end of the world;
The end of me
The end of everything I know and want,
The end of all my desires,
The end of all my dreams

Somehow, that doesn’t frighten me;
I want it all the more
The end of all my past and future,
The end of the here-and-now…

If, in the end of everything
There is nothing but passion and love,

Then we exist in infinity, foreverness,
Between worlds and existence
Where words have no meaning
Where there never was a lie
Where dreams go to be born and die…

Silence speaks so loudly
In the nebulous ether
Of you
And I

Crosswinds

Somehow, he had managed to have them upgraded to first-class seats.

Somehow, she thought, when he doesn’t even have air miles or priority status.

He was just charming, that way.

They boarded and found wide, comfortable seats next to each other. She loved flying first-class: she loved the free alcoholic beverages (even though she didn’t drink that much) and the cute snack baskets in which flight attendants carry so many unnecessary goodies (even if they were things she’d never eat at home); it felt like when she was a child on road trips with her parents. Her mom would always pack coolers full of soda and water bottles, would pack bags full of their favorite munchies so the kids wouldn’t be anxious or obnoxious on the trip and Dad wouldn’t have to stop “every ten minutes” to satisfy one child’s or another’s hunger pangs.

They hand out blankets, in first class, when you’re cold and pillows if you need them; and they are always unfailingly nice.

He leaned over and buried his nose in her hair; lingered. She smirked, turned her head just slightly towards him.

“Hmm… comfortable?” she asked.

He smirked, his grin only visible from the shift in his cheekbones that she could make out peripherally. “Mmmmm…” he hummed happily. He parted her hair with his sharp nose and pressed his warm lips against her neck.

She shuddered, let out a soft gasp and tilted her head oppositely to give him access; his teeth sank impressionably into her skin.

Thirteen lived her life with a strong awareness of the world around her; but, when she was with Twenty-Six, it was challenging to maintain even in the best of times. …Well… let’s make that: ‘even when he wasn’t touching her skin.’ But her habitual love of observation, of learning all she could about the world around her always kicked in, demanding she become aware, considerate of others despite the inconvenience it sometimes posed to various parts of her life.

Twenty-Six knew this about her, and it was one of the things he enjoyed most. He knew of her duality of purpose: both to learn about and to love the world for what it is, while breaking every rule that bound her to those traditions and ways of thinking she considered antiquated or obsolete. He knew, also, that it implied Thirteen would only inconvenience others or disturb their comfort as a result of her behaviors if she considered her pleasure, behavior and priorities to be – very innocently – more important than theirs… particularly when she assessed they might learn something from her daring nature.

So, Twenty-Six took pleasure in testing Thirteen’s boundaries, even if it meant he irked her sometimes. He loved playing games, and she was – quite literally – his favorite playmate.

Twenty-Six shifted his teeth meaningfully, pressing his sharp incisors just a fraction deeper into her throat. Thirteen’s low moan and the throbbing pulse beneath his lips indicated that Twenty-Six was winning the attention he prized; he paused and lightly licked the warm skin caught between his teeth.

She shuddered again and closed her eyes, goosebumps raising all over her skin.

Suddenly, Thirteen jerked the rest of her body to attention, her eyes open slightly, and glanced around the plane like a doe watching for predators. Her head and neck did not otherwise move.

So far, it seemed they were unsettling no one. The businessmen across the aisle were caught up with their martinis and cell phones; she could see no one else who might have noticed.

Thirteen lifted her hand and stroked Twenty-Six’s cheek, hidden under her waves of hair; then gently herself pulled herself away.

Twenty-Six did not move, but watched her with wide, child-like eyes. He murmured, his voice low and facile, “What? You didn’t like it?” The twinkle in his eyes and smirk forming at the corners of his mouth could not be repressed.

Thirteen’s lashes lowered shyly, acknowledging that her handsome companion had achieved his ends. She leaned over to his earlobe and, her hot breath falling upon his skin, confirmed: “…You’re driving me crazy. You know you are….”

One side of Twenty-Six’s mouth lifted to a victorious half-smile. He had wanted to push her more, had learned her limits, knew when was best to push them… and this was Thirteen’s way of saying she wanted everything he would deliver (and possibly more than he had yet contrived), and that she trusted him enough to break every foul rule in every book, was ready and willing to walk together, unabashedly, straight into Heaven or Hell or jail or whatever-might-result from doing so…

But that could wait.

Twenty-Six had been with plenty of women over the years, and none was quite like Thirteen. There were women more ravenously eager, more carnally-driven, but he had long ago lost interest in them. They were, to him, the soul-equivalent of vultures and hyenas: They had a job to do and they did it exceptionally well; no one could fault or criticize them for any of what they were. They were even – and often! – quite physically beautiful, kind, sweet ladies; but he found their motivations shallow. There were no hidden parts to women like that; there were no discoveries, no surprises.

There were women, too, more naively innocent than Thirteen… but they just made Twenty-Six feel dirty, evil, cruel when he toyed with them. Which, he remembered well, he had.

He played with women for years on end, until he met Thirteen. He was even expecting to play with her, when they met… until he quickly found he couldn’t. The longer he gazed into her immortal eyes, the longer he spent looking at any part of her, the more he felt connected to her… and the more he saw of her. She was so open, so guileless… so vast. It was like she started, at first glance, as a mere female, then took shape as a sensual and beautiful woman, and then just kept expanding infinitely… while, somehow, she managed to keep her multitudinous universes spiraling, growing inside her very feminine figure. He didn’t quite get lost, but sometimes… wouldn’t it be fun to? Because, god, she was beautiful…!

He had confessed to her the game he played with other women, when they met. He confessed his reasons for playing: that he was bored with the women he met, that they did little for his intelligence or for his ego; that it was no great boost to be considered fantastically-attractive by women to whom he was only physically attracted. He had used women like one uses drugs, needing more and more, becoming increasingly less satisfied, intrigued, happy…

And he confessed his original intentions with her.

He fully expected her to walk away from him, at that last point. He fully expected her to hate him, to judge him, to consider him absolutely beneath her — and, she didn’t. Even when, many times, he hated himself for what he did with women.

The memory flickered through Twenty-Six’s mind in an instant as he watched her; and his playful mood shifted urgently to express his mind’s subconscious, intense conclusion. His hands lifted to hold her face, his eyes poured silently passionate emotion into hers. His heart felt like it would burst if he did not do something; his blood surging through him like a flood, he felt a nearly-overwhelming desire to take her, then and there.

He pressed his lips to hers instead. He held himself there, held her face strongly, gently. Their lips did not move for eternal moments, the river of his energy rushing into her, binding them together with the exact effect of touching a live wire.

Finally, after what seemed like eons, he felt his passion ease just a fraction; his lips parted and the primal part of his psyche took control. Their lips parted synchronously; his tongue found hers and danced, lapped at her mouth as he drank renewed and intermingled energy from her like a thirsty animal at a crystal spring.

She responded perfectly; there was no thought in her but him, yet her awareness of the entire plane, of the entire world became increasing complete. It felt, to her, like his passion drove her entire body and mind into perpetually-heightened states of relaxed sensitivity; this feeling – however in her life she could find it – always felt like surfing, like riding the crest of a wave into complete understanding.

Her cheek twitched suddenly, involuntarily, and she opened her eyes, glanced up. A pretty Italian stewardess looked on with eyes that admitted she’d been admiring their love for more than a few seconds. The stewardess smiled gently, her eyes approvingly warm, and her cheeks glowing with a gently fresh flush.

Thirteen gracefully pulled away from Twenty-Six and took his left hand in a fluid motion as uncomplicated as as the ocean’s waves pulling away from the seashore. Thirteen smiled slowly, easily, her cheeks and lips now painted several shades brighter than the stewardess’.

Twenty-Six’s gaze shifted from Thirteen’s face to the window for brief moments, his mind assessing the undesired pause. He turned his head towards the stewardess, lifting his eyes only enough to peripherally appraise the situation. His jaw tensed and he fixed his gaze on the seat in front of him. His heart was exclusively Thirteen’s; and he was visibly annoyed at the disturbance. Thirteen’s thighs shifted under her skirt and Twenty-Six’s tension eased a fraction, redirected. His mind focused distantly, flicked through all of the things he would do to Thirteen if only this damned stewardess would leave.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but we’re preparing for departure,” the stewardess explained, glancing down at Twenty-Six’s face in an attempt to catch his unyielding gaze. Failing, her face flushed lightly and she shifted her eyes to Thirteen.

Thirteen smiled warmly at the girl and thanked her. Thirteen’s thumb lightly brushed the inside of Twenty-Six’s tensed thumb as the as she spoke; the stewardess smiled apologetically and walked away.

Thirteen moved her fingers to lay flat under Twenty-Six’s, then slipped her fingers between his and squeezed gently. His face had hardened slightly, his eyes narrowed. His hand tightened on hers fractionally, a hint of possessiveness breaking free.

“Why didn’t we stay at home?” he grumbled.

Thirteen’s lips curled into an entertained smile and she laughed. “You silly man. Because you wanted to show me that tiny island you love.” Thirteen’s eyes danced merrily as she watched for his bitter expression to fade.

Twenty-Six turned and looked into Thirteen’s merry eyes. His lips relaxed into a grin, her joy and love infecting him once again.

He shook his head lightly, like shaking off the dust of ages from his mind. His gaze fell again to her flowing skirt and he released her hand carefully. Twenty-Six leaned towards Thirteen and kissed her lips lightly.

“Right,” he uttered, slipping a warm hand beneath the light fabric at her knee, ripples of goosebumps raised in the wake as his fingers traced a line from her bare thigh to her hip.

I’m Sorry, Darling…

I'm sorry, Darling,
the light is fading,
though the love does not wane

I'm sorry, Darling,
the world must go on,
my life must go on,
you must go on

We must learn
from those pains,
from those sorrows

we each bear;
from the frustrations,
from the highs and lows
We must take something

We must love

I'm sorry, Darling,
but you have neither control
of Light or Dark

The Sun remains The Sun,
and the World, itself, is turning

Watch as the Sunset erupts into immortal flames across an infinite sky;

When you're in the right place,
at every Beginning and at every End,
it is impossible to deny
her beauty is as great

Now is the sunset of our love
Now is the end of you-and-me

Between the Lines of X.Y.Z

The Way I Wanted It To Go

This is not a story about you; how could it be?
It’s just a dream, a part of me.
MLM

Of course, she was angry.

She had just shared a very intimate staring contest with a fabulously-gorgeous guy who kept looking back at her, speaking to her without words, over and over. She was utterly helpless, completely confused. She was attracted to him; he was attracted to her; yet, he didn’t approach her. What was she supposed to do, interrupt him in the midst of the group and say hello, give him her number? She had no desire to throw herself at him, especially when he was the one who had initiated, who kept initiating contact, who kept breathing down her neck from across the room.

And then, to stare at her again while she passed to go to her car, watching so openly with his friends as if she was on display, and not even to bother standing up?

The unspoken conversation was too much for her; she had more dignity than this. And yet, he pressed upon her mind as intimately as…

Well, she didn’t want to go there.

Damnit. Yes, she did.

She walked to her black vintage Mercedes knowing he was watching her ass. Well, she thought, if he wants it, he’s gonna have to come and get it.

Her body tensed sensitively at the thought. She didn’t have to envision anything; the promises, teases and taunts he had already explicitly explained with his chestnut eyes’ steady gaze were implanted into her mind; she was sure he very precisely knew what he was doing and what it would do to her.

She paused for a moment before inserting the key into the door, felt her skin bracing pleasurably, involuntarily; she let out a low, breathy moan. The endorphin rush flooded her brain; her body relaxed, aroused. She inhaled the warm spring air, deeply.

“Hi.”

Thirteen jumped, clenched the keys tightly in her right hand; turned around.

He was there, two feet behind her.

Her body – confused and disoriented by the flood of conflicting messages her startled, excited, aroused mind was sending – convulsed in invisible tremors that, had she been more conscious of herself and not so fully aware of him, would be completely familiar. Instead, her mind reeled rapidly, trying to remember what to do or say to a man one desires so much, one whom, only moments before, had infuriated her with his lack of follow-up to his silent, indecent proposals.

She steeled her mind instinctively. “Hi.”

She smiled without thinking about it; his face beamed suddenly in response, his small, brown eyes steadily fixed on hers.

The conversation lulled in a very electric way, each of them appreciating, assessing the other for long seconds, though Thirteen speedily assessed herself fractions of seconds before she could assess him. He seemed genuine, open, honest; and he had surprised her. This hardly seemed the same guy who had stared her down inside the coffee shop; she had been certain he would not follow her.

“Uhm, how did you get here?” The words spilled out of her mouth before she realized what she was saying; and, becoming conscious, her copper skin flushed red beneath her freckles. Her throat felt like it was closing in…

“I mean…” she stammered and flushed crimson.

His eyes lit with gentle amusement. “I walked. My car is parked over there.” And he gestured vaguely towards the left.

She blinked once. “Oh…. Oh, of course. Uh, I… uhm…”

He cut her off, smiling. “I’m Twenty-Six. The End Of The Alphabet.” And he grinned again.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, yes, right. Pleasure, Twenty-Six. I’m Thirteen.”

Thirteen didn’t know why, but her stomach suddenly felt tight, bottomed-out. She felt nauseous, terrified, sad – all at once. She frowned, gazing blankly at the asphalt near the front tire of her car, and her shoulders tensed uncomfortably.

Twenty-Six’s face followed suit, his narrow lips turning into a concerned frown. He reached out his right hand to rest upon her shoulder and pressed his fingers carefully. “Thirteen? Are you alright?”

Thirteen looked up sadly, her hazel eyes turned the color of an overcast English sky.

“No,” she replied, sullen. “This is just a dream; and you’re not real.”

Twenty-Six stepped closer, his hand still on her shoulder. “No,” he replied, “I am real, and this is not a dream. I’m real, and you’re beautiful, and I couldn’t stop myself from gazing at you, in there. Your eyes….” He blinked. “Your intensity…. Your intensity is amazing; I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never seen anyone like you.”

She blinked, her eyes rimmed and glassy with emotion. She paused a moment, pursed her lips briefly and looked into his eyes. “Well, you’re beautiful.” She said it like a dare, the tone one of a childish come-back.

Twenty-Six’s worried look vanished, replaced by a delighted smile, and he laughed mirthfully. “Oh, yeah? Well, I already called you beautiful, so you’re stealing my compliments. Try again.” And he grinned.

Thirteen’s face lightened, and she smiled. A moment later, and the light in her eyes danced merrily. She smirked impishly. “Well, you’re gorgeous,” she intoned. “And a fantastic dresser. I love the suit and I love the shoes. And, you’re nice, too. … I didn’t think you’d be nice, too.”

Twenty-Six’s face flinched a little. “I’m not always,” he admitted. “I have quite a temper, or can have. It’s gotten me into real trouble before, so I try very hard to control it.”

“Oh,” Thirteen said, and paused to think. “Well, that’s okay; I have a bit of a temper, too… and I can get really frustrated sometimes and I throw a little bit of a fit, and sometimes wind up crying out of anger and frustration. Is that okay?”

Thirteen looked up into Twenty-Six’s eyes with genuine innocence.

Twenty-Six smiled warmly, “Yes, of course it is. Anything you feel is okay. If you didn’t feel it, I wonder if you’d be so beautifully intense.” He paused for a moment. “Please, just be you. And I’ll just be me, too. …If I wanted less than you, I wouldn’t have come here to meet you; I’d just have left you hanging… but you’re too beautiful. And I wanted to.”

Thirteen checked Twenty-Six’s eyes for any sign of deceit, and found none. She sighed softly, her full chest heaving, and her shoulders relaxed. “Okay. I… Okay.”

“Do you want to go somewhere else, to talk?” he offered. “It’s not that I don’t want you to meet my friends; it’s just that, well… I want to get to know you. And I’m not yet ready to share you.”

Thirteen’s cheeks flushed lightly as she smiled. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’d love to. Your car or mine?”

Twenty-Six grinned boyishly. “Yours? If you don’t mind? It’s much nicer than mine, and I love it. Want me to drive?” His eyes twinkled.

Thirteen laughed, one level of tension finally broken. “Sure. It’s gorgeous, don’t you think? It’s my dad’s, but he lets me drive it. I love it. Handles great.”

Twenty-Six smiled, pleased. “Thanks. I’ll be careful; I always am.” He took the keys and unlocked the door.

Thirteen walked around to the passenger’s side, opened the door and slid onto the leather seat, smiling happily. She looked over at Twenty-Six, watched as he adjusted the seat and mirrors. He glanced at her, saw her gaze and grinned. “Thanks a lot. …You’re really special, trusting. And beautiful. I could look into those eyes for days….”

The tension suddenly shifted to Thirteen’s heart as he stared, kept staring into her eyes, feeling out her soul. Her cheeks flushed hotly, burning; and yet, she could not withdraw her gaze from his. Her breathing deepened steadily; and Twenty-Six kept looking, speaking an ancient, silent language into her soul. She felt her grip on herself steadily weakening, overtaken with the certainty that, very soon, she would be willing to do literally anything for this man.

He leaned over the center console and, with his right hand, held his palm flush to her cheek. His gaze became simultaneously incredibly gentle and deeply intense. “There is so much I want to tell you,” he confessed, “so much I will tell you.” He hesitated, and she felt the hesitation like a sudden release of the grip on her heart.

Twenty-Six dropped his head, resting his forehead on hers, his warm palm still pressed against her reddened cheek. Thirteen’s heart raced; she could feel her pulse thrumming in her temples. She lifted her own right hand and placed it on his cheek. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

He blinked hard, lifted his head and looked again into her eyes. This time, his face was only half-an-inch away from hers. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re a good person, a good girl.”

Twenty-Six’s face moved reflexively closer, his lips almost brushing hers… and he stopped, pulled back, and brushed his thumb softly, slowly across her lips.

“Soon,” he assured her, looking at her lips. He lifted his gaze once more to her eyes. “Soon, I promise.”

Thirteen’s eyes welled, thick with tears. She nodded. “Okay…. Okay.”

One tear escaped and rolled down her hot cheek, near Twenty-Six’s resting hand. He wiped her cheek gently and spoke. “No more tears, okay? It’s going to be alright; and you may cry later, if you need. But, we’ve found each other, and we’re going for coffee and will talk all night, if you like. It’s going to be alright.”

Thirteen gazed, hopefully, searching, into Twenty-Six’s guileless eyes, and found what she was looking for. “Alright,” she responded, nodding. She pulled herself back into the seat, glanced again at the beautiful boy sitting in the driver’s seat of her car; and buckled her seatbelt. She smiled deliberately.

“Alright.”

The Sounds of Freezing Rain

I don't care if you are beautiful,
I am done with you

I don't care that I love you

I don't care about our past,
I don't care about our future

because love was meant to last

I don't care for your intentions,
I don't care for your mistakes;
I don't care for our desires

This must end before I break

I don't mean it for a minute,
I don't mean it for a year

I mean:

I can't bear this feeling
of you calling me your "Dear"

while you test that my heart beats
for you through the test of time

while you promise me your friendship
when devotion is but mine

I don't want to hear your sweet voice

I don't want to read your words

and should you chance upon me

please don't ask that I abjure
either love or firm abstinence

for my heart and mind must heal

I have chosen life without you
'til your heart you will reveal

Without love, there is no friendship
without friendship is no love
possible between two people who

may swear to skies above
that they are true, that they love,
that they care for one another purely

and yet, wish for something different...

as when you ask me to demurely
sit, or walk, or feel for you,
abnegating all my soul,
deprecating all I value
and then, playfully, cajole

me into bearing, yet again,
my heart

such is neither kind nor true

I don't care that you are beautiful

I must be done with you

Liberty

You were here with me
in my dream

I would rather you were here,
colors gleaming gold and copper in the sun
through the jet of your coat;

I would rather you were here,
walking paths 'round the fields and along the streams

I woke; without a thought, planned to wander,
you scampering at my side,
your brightness alighting my life;
your name come to life

I can see you still

My heart aches to have you here:
I wonder how you'd be with those 
seven heads taller than you,
how many creatures you would reign

You were always magical:
your wide eyes alert, awake, alive;
your presence a piece of synchronicity

Maybe I was here to save you, in your youth;
maybe you were here to save me, too.

Maybe I was here to give you my heart, my love;
maybe you were waiting to let me love you

Maybe we always knew we would part,
maybe you knew everything I didn't know I knew

All I know is that I know you, still,
and that you know me too

All I know is that I love you, still,
and that you love me too

First loves set a mold in our hearts,
I've heard it said;
you, my cherished one, broke every mold,
broke every hated rule:

You were the one who explored with me,
you were one who loved without questioning,
you were the one who is all and more than you are

My beautiful boy:
if love is an instant and a foreverness,
if forgiveness can be begged of you,
love knows you forgive me and miss me, too:

Forever apart,
forever with me,
forever loved,
forever true:

My beautiful one,
my Liberty;
and I am yours, too

This Side of Nothing

It’s not what I thought it would be.

I gained a good thirty pounds, I’m sure. They still say I’m sexy, and maybe I am…. Sometimes I feel so, and mostly I just don’t know.

I never thought I’d be so comfortable lounging around in the late English summer, breezes blowing coolly across a grassy lawn and stirring the leaves in the trees so they sound like ocean waves coming ashore, RAF planes flying overhead at indiscriminate intervals.

I didn’t think I’d feel so comfortable after starting to fall out of love, to rest so gently on its precipice. I’ve always thought: If I’m out of love, I’ll be alone. I won’t be me.

But I’m not alone. And I’m still me.

Maybe I’m even more me than ever. I certainly express more of what I think and feel, in the moments of thinking-and-feeling.

And he’s not too bothered, not enough to wish me gone. Perhaps it’s because I still love him…. Perhaps it’s because he loves me.

I’m just, more or less, alone. Exactly the way I like to be.

Falling out of interest with falling in love, but sitting on this precipice, nonetheless. Not in love nor out of it, but just loving.

It’s funny, because it’s what he talked about from the beginning, what he’s been so concerned that I feel, more than anything: That I’m comfortable.

I didn’t want to be comfortable. I resisted fiercely.

I’ve grown so accustomed to being uncomfortable, to being on the verge of falling off a cliff of some sort or other, to facing my fears, to facing my demons, to mirroring others’ demons so they can face them. It’s not always fun, but the coming-out is; and it’s always rewarding. You inhale a great breath as you walk out of Hell and you never know where you’ll end up.

Before, you were often there, or rather, you’d come around again to check in with me, to check in on me.

C: “How are you doing with your injury?”
M: “It hurts, and it’s very swollen. I have to take the pain meds pretty regularly, and I get really tired. But it doesn’t hurt as much as it did.”
C: “…How are you otherwise?”
M: “I’m lonely.”
C: “What about the 50k guys that were swarming you?”
M: “That’s why I’m lonely. Swarms mean there’s no connection and the real people can’t get through.”
C: “I understand. I am kind of a needy male, too.”
C. & M. text conversation

I told him when I met him that I’d lose you, if I fell in love with him, if I ever wound up with him. Was it Fate or some strange connection between us, some strange agreement made long ago in an unspoken language? Whatever the case, the timing was as queerly precise as ever. And, boy, did you seem angry.

But I guess I’ve walked out of Hell again; and, instead of you (or anyone, really, except for him), I’ve ended up on a very cozy, quiet farm in the east of England where the birds chatter all day and for most of the night, where the farmer is flirtatious and kind, where the horses nibble grass all day long, and the foxes cry at night like complaining factory machines. The doves, however, drive me crazy with their plaintive coos that sound, to me, like a sleeping baby with a bronchial infection.

And I am alone all day long; kept watch over all night long.

I thought I was coming to Europe to run – actually, to sail – away from my problems and into myself. Greece was gorgeous, but it didn’t work the way I had planned. I was sad that I had nowhere to go next, that my plans were dashed. And you made it clear that I was not to come visit you, expressed in no uncertain terms; and I couldn’t alternately arrange to visit my friend in Italy.

So, I returned to England.

Sex with the Englishman I’m with is grand, but it is not enough. But I knew that with you.

Nor is it an escape. I knew that with you, as well, but I never knew it so well as I know now.

Supplant “sex” for “travel,” “TV,” “books,” “writing,” or “work” and the truth clings intensely in all cases:
Not a single one is ever enough, in itself. Not a single, solitary activity can ever be a viable escape.
Tweet

You want to know what our problem was? I’ve wondered for seven years.

It wasn’t money, neither having exorbitant amounts to spend frivolously nor suddenly having next-to-none. It wasn’t that we loved our love life and explored voraciously. It wasn’t your history or mine; it wasn’t even your jealousy or my vehement heart.

It was our isolation, yours and mine, from each other, and from ourselves.

Particularly from ourselves.

I find myself as isolated as I’ve ever been in my life, now, for most of the day, for most days. I still wake up vibrant and excited when I know I’m going somewhere new to explore and see things I’ve never seen before, to indulge in my passion of connecting with strangers, to let my curiosity guide me. I can wash my bare feet in frigid ocean waters as comfortably as burying my toes in warm sands under the intense sun. I wander sweet-scented woods, wondering at the ages of gnarled trees and all they’ve seen.

The difference in my thinking is that I’ve realized that no one thing can be everything, no matter how much I love the activity.

Because: In-between atoms, what is there? In-between the protons and electrons and neutrons, what is there?

There’s a whole lot of nothing, with everything floating, colliding, meandering.

And that, I’ve realized, is where I like to be: In the ‘nothing.’

The past, the present are somewhere in all of that nothing, all of my feelings and all of yours and everyone else’s, too. There’s an endless supply of possibilities… maybe not everything you or I would wish to be, and most certainly some things we don’t favor, but plenty that we do, or might, or could.

Right now, between us, there’s not much. There’s our past, but I’m not really holding onto it anymore. I daresay there’s nothing between us, except perhaps my love for you (which may or may not reach you) and whatever you feel for me (which may or may not reach me).

And I’m okay with that nothing. I can sit very peacefully in nothing, having spent a lot of time in it, listening to the cacophony of guilt and accusations and suppositions and wishes and dreams racing through my head. Having let it be, having remained doing nothing, being nothing, I can listen to a whole lot of things. I can remember nearly anything I want; I can look and examine the past or the present, or dream about and even try to plan the future.

I start to realize that the only reason I wanted you with me, the reason I wanted to see you again, the reason I wanted to re-start our “something” was because I was so desperately afraid of the nothing. I was afraid it would consume me, my feelings, my everything.

Us.

And you.

But: There’s nothing between us now, and it’s not consuming what we were.

There’s nothing between us now, and it’s apparently not consuming you.

There’s nothing between us now and I still love, can still love you. And I still do.

There’s nothing between us now…

And you’re still you.

And, better still (because it matters so much to me, and in me is all of what I love, including you and us):

There’s nothing between us now.

And I’m still me, too.

Wonderland Has Come

He doesn’t know -
And neither do I -
How much time passed in the netherverse of love
How much power heartbeats have in times of need.

Years passed by without him near,
And mere moments since I have returned,
Thick with love and sweetness;
And we’re drunk on each other, again.

With every breath, I inhale a world that was mine.
With every glance, he takes me in.
This is not the love, the passion of children,
Of hurt adults fumbling towards ecstasy;

This is the love between worlds,
Between the seconds of real time;
This is violet love, of the kind Tesla knew…
This is fantasy-come-true.

Don’t talk to me of what might have been.
Don’t utter words of dissent, of discontent.
These are the times worth saving,
Moments worth living…

These are the worlds unseen and yet alive;
So:
Live
And love

Endlessly.

P.S. I Love You, Still

I fell into your world, my love;
And here, I shall remain, in heart,

Even if I am away,
Even if I must away,
Even if I am to be in a Wonderland of my own making…

I fell here, first, my love;
And here, I shall remain, in part,

As I have for years,
As I have for weeks,
As I shall, again, until I find the mirror-gate to you…

There is a Hatter who makes tea for two,

Who protects his M with kindness,
Who tempts Alice with long-coated horses,
Whose silver steed drives like the wildest things.

There is a girl whose land is elsewhere,
Yet finds life in Wonderland rings

With yet too-familiar courses
Of behavior with him all-too true…
And yet, we pine in distance;

And yet, you are right here;
By some grace of our natures’ providence
We touch what we hold so dear…

And you are in my heart, my love;
And here, you’ll always stay,

No matter time may come or go;
No matter how many worlds away…

For we have already broken rules
Upon us set by else-worlds’ minds,
Still: As precious as Majesty’s jewels,
Each other’s hearts, we find.

Stay with me. Love me. Be with me.
We shall never fear nor be torn apart;
For we are as Titans, as magical as gods
With all we’ve ever seen.

The Death of C & S

Feels different, now:
Feels empty, like we’re both hiding some dirty secret.

You won’t look me in the eyes;
I can’t smile at you, and

I don’t want to lie to you.

We were children, for a moment.
We were happy for days,
Two friends across a room,
Two strangers giving love

For nothing more than a common simplicity.

No one cared but us.
No one demanded of us.
No one really knew, but us.

It feels different now.
It tastes different now,

Like stale bread,
Like spoilt milk,
Like turned fish.

I don’t like it;
And, I think,

Neither do you.

Being with Nick Mulvey

I don’t want to talk, any more, of pain.

I don’t want to remember all of the hurt
I’ve caused others,
Others have caused me.

I don’t want to talk any more of fear;
I don’t want to talk of being unafraid.

I want to love,
To live,
To be.

Let me be;
Love me if you will;
Live with me, if you can…
If you dare.

I won’t judge you, anyway.

I just want to be,
To be,
To be free.

Let me be…
And be free with me

If you will
If you wish
If you may
If you can

Let it be…

It’s time for the past to die.

We let everything die…
Let everyone die…
Let this die.

Let love die.

Let, this time, the past free
To be
To die

Let me free;
And die this moment
Every moment
To foreverness
Until foreverness
Has no meaning...

Until we are all free.

Love In A Criminal World

Don’t tell me you want to get to know me

When I give you all I am.

I’m not made of the times we share,

Not made of the things we do,

But of the life I live,

The ways I love,

And how I see the world.

Don’t investigate me like a criminal,

For I’ve done nothing wrong to you

Except give my love

Boundlessly

To a man

Who thinks he does not deserve me.

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(tho singed and lost within the smoke of recent fires)

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The Way I Wanted It To Go

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