Tag: writing

Unsplintered

Eventually, you’ll know that I wrote this for you – though I’m publishing it because I’m not the only one in the world who needs, who deserves, who craves to be inspired by, reminded of, enlightened by an example such as you.

I just asked you the hardest questions ever about our budding relationship. I stated the hardest truths – unique to us, but not unique; and they may very well be the hardest truths we ever face.

It’s the second time today we’ve struggled through strong, heavy, deep emotions. Trudging through tidal waves in old rivers that promise to pull us under if we lose hold of each other, if we fail to keep aware, I led us this morning and again this evening.

It would be easier, of course, to slip into something comfortable and let the tide carry us away, swept on the surface of our emotions without ever diving beneath the rippling waves.

I’m not like that, though.

I don’t trust the way others live their romances, ignoring life and living, believing only what’s above the surface, pretending nothing exists beneath; then lying about where they’ve been when they delve into depths with other friends or lovers – or by themselves.

I’ve tried to lead men in this way before.

Countless times (very literally), I’ve been accused harshly for speaking the truth. Countless times, I’ve been hammered down for fearing, for feeling, for expressing my anxieties, my heartfelt wishes, my anguish-strained memories.

I was alone when you found me, this time, for a reason:

It never worked, before. I’ve countlessly been abandoned. I’ve endlessly been blamed, misunderstood, rejected.

It’s a lot, I know. Where once I was silent, afraid to speak a word about the rippling of my heart, reigned in the tidal waves of fears and tears and love and dreams because I was used to being beaten, I speak it all, given liberty to do so. I ask, still, rather than presuming. It speaks highly of… everything.

Not that any of that matters, now.

What matters is that you looked at your life, at our love, at the difficulties that lay ahead of us and, rather than hiding anymore, rather than accepting what is untenable, rather than asking that I accept something equally or more untenable, you took the lead.

You don’t know how proud I am of you for this, for what you did for me. For us. For you.

And you let me give this to you.

This, also, speaks highly of everything.

I know it’s not easy to face your truths. I know it’s not easy to change one’s life, to walk out into the unknown.

But you did it. You took that first step.

I’m so proud of you. As hard as it is, as deep as this hurts, I’m so proud of you for accepting responsibility for your life. For not evading anymore. For accepting yourself.

You’re not splintered anymore.

Splintered by Aisha Badru

They never taught us how to love
So we use our pain
To comfort us
And we never practice what we preach
Instead, we find
Someone else to teach

We try not to see with our eyes
We fill our plates
With dozens of lies
We try so hard to keep it in
We turn away
From what lies within

We are splintered
And we are rotten
Deep within the walls that we've forgotten
All the answers
To all our problems
Lie within the one who tries to dodge them

Ooooh, ooooh
Ooooh, ooooh

We're so afraid to be alone
So we hoard our pain
And call it home
They never taught us how to look inside
Only how to run and how to dry our eyes

We dig ourselves into a ditch
How many of us die
And pretend to live?
We stop the life from leakin' in
When we turn away
From what lies within

We are splintered
And we are rotten
Deep within the walls that we've forgotten
All the answers
To all our problems
Lie within the one who tries to dodge them

We are splintered
And we are rotten
Deep under the floorboards we've forgotten
But all the answers
To all our problems
Lie within the one who tries to dodge them

Ooooh, ooooh
Ooooh, ooooh

Source: Musixmatch
Songwriters: Aisha Badru

Muse

We write; and it is not with a blind eye that we see ourselves, nor with deaf ears that we hear the cries of our hearts and souls – and those of others whom we love: mother, father, sister, brother, cousins, aunts and uncles, friends and strangers. We write; and we catch a glimpse into the emotions we already know, the pains and sorrows, the joys and fathomless depths of those around us whose lives swirl like dervishes that only barely brush our cheeks, that only briefly caress and embrace us. We write; and a moment lasts forever, every microsecond of emotion held within our bellies to nourish our lives forever, to nourish others who might read – or to upset the stomachs of the guilty who might recognize, in this, their wrongdoing.

We write; and the world exists.

For, there may be billions, trillions of truths – one for every moment that exists with prismatic possibilities; but all are lost to the depths of darkness unless we capture, for a moment, this.

And so, I write, am spurred to write; and understand, in this fuzzy state of emotion brought on by salty beer and sadness at the loss of one so great as The Great Gatsby’s Fitzgerald, why it is that he drank and felt this to be the only state in which greatness might be achieved:  For, it is hard, so often, to swallow the same truths that linger in our minds and memories as we recount for the world what it is we see.  They are painful truths, even the most beautiful.

For, if we were living, now, we would not write; and if we did not write, we would, somehow, cease to be.

An Open Letter to a Nigerian CatFisher

I’ve been thinking of you, this morning.

Since the day I found out you weren’t real, when I looked into the real doctor, I’ve been thinking of how to write to you – to the real you.

Underneath it all, there’s a real you. I’m sure I touched upon it – with my poetry, with my writing.

So, I’m writing to the real you, this time — although, truth be told, I was writing to the real you, all the time.

Though you weren’t you.

Except in your responses to me; in your responses to my poetry.

“Charmed by your writing,” you wrote to me. That, I believe.

So, here I am, writing to you — to the human in you.

I told you, that first day, that I was skeptical of you. My senses were accurate; you were deceiving me. I don’t know why.

I’m told, and there are ways to learn, to surmise what your purpose was. I’m just a humble writer; just a humble poetess. I’ve not money to give you; only time. Only my time, and my writing.

So, I’m writing to you — for myself, this time.

Let me be open with you, for I am open (and that, incidentally, is why you’ve not hurt me):

I love what is real… and it was the real in you that kept me intrigued, that suspended my time with you, that suspended my disbelief.

It will never make sense to me that people deceive — whatever the reason, be it for money, for love, for attention. I am too real, too honest, too guileless to want in my life anything but what is real…

Even if a sweet romance with some intriguing man is beautiful to me.

For better or for worse, reality is what draws me; and honesty is what gives me strength. For better or for worse, truth, not lies, captivate my mind; beg me to enter any relationship, for any reason, and hold me, bind me to anything.

Birdsong; wafting breezes; thundering planes roaring through the sky. Chills from cool mornings and the heat of the sun in warm afternoons beckon me to stay, to indulge, to brave all else that may call to me. Truthful conversations, real reactions: these things draw me from whatever else I may feel — and not because I wish for something to happen, but because something is happening. Something real is happening.

And I am not afraid of shifts in weather, of shifts in personality; but only, ever, does deceit eat away at such things, for deception is the death of anything.

So, I ask you this: Why deceive? Why continue a deceit, a ruse when it was clear that you had nothing to take from me, when I could give you nothing more than time, when so much of my writing was yours, already, to read?

It is curious to me, for it was you who was caught in a trap of reality… and I have certainly been accused — before, by others to whom I gave my reality — of spinning a web in which they became caught.

You thought yourself the spider, and I the fly; but truth shows a mirrored reality: that truth, not lies, not deceit binds people. And it is truth, reality, openness that keeps us, nourishes us, gives us life — and love.

I get tired of the secrets; they’re only good when they’re revealed, in any case.

I’m intriguing only because I’m real, open, honest, vulnerable; and my vulnerability keeps me safe because I choose to be vulnerable — but not unwisely so, not naively so.

Conscious vulnerability is the safest place in all the world… because in this act, alone, I can see best all that there is to see; because I can see others’ shields sparkling, and I can see where vulnerability remains. I can see it, and I choose to prod those spots gently… not to cause pain, as others might; but to give life, to encourage increased vulnerability — with me, if with no one else.

So, take from me this:

You have a choice to be real, to be vulnerable, as I have seen you to be. You have a choice to read and respond, or not to respond and remain in your dark secrets.

But I live in the freedom of life, and I can feel the breath of breezes touching me; while you and all of those who shield themselves — in others’ skins, as you tried with me, or behind the walls of their other fictions — feel only what slips beneath the seams of your various armors.

I am real. And that is honestly the most valuable thing I have… but you cannot have all of my reality, nor anyone’s (not even your own), if you do not remove your own armor first and step into your own reality.

I hope, for your own sake, that you abandon this fruitless cause that isolates you so deeply.

Daydreams

And the world is blue without your arms
And grey, without your mind;
It’s red, without your kisses, fine,
Refined by stalwart art

My mind creates a land of charms
With vibrant greens and gold
Despite the chill of winter’s cold,
Brown swallows dash and dart

Amidst white clouds and shining things,
A rainbow hangs above;
And sing a bird’s song, bright, of love,
Into this brand-new start

Come hither, where the church bell rings
With every passing hour
And bring to me a springtime flower,
And in my life, take part

And the world is blue without your arms
And grey, without your mind;
It’s red, without your kisses, fine,
Refined by stalwart art

My mind creates a land of charms
With vibrant greens and gold
Despite the chill of winter’s cold,
Brown swallows dash and dart

Amidst white clouds and shining things,
A rainbow hangs above;
And sing a bird’s song, bright, of love,
Into this brand-new start

Come hither, where the church bell rings
With every passing hour
And bring to me a springtime flower,
And in my life, take part

Into My World, A Shadow Falls

Into my world, anew, a darkness drew —
Fell, near burning fires, a shadow’s gaze
Upon my weary count'nance; and I knew:
This shadow's grip would claim me, all my days

And stole into my mind and heart, it's true;
Gave up to me the secrets of its ways;
And promised shining things: the morning's dew
Could never shine so bright, nor yield such praise

And still, my mind and heart were warmed anew,
A wav'ring shadow wandered in its plays
Until a darker threat ran its soul through:
Pure jealousy chilled the shadow to such craze

And madness, took the shadow's mind and blew
A word of banishment to me, did itself faze
When love eternal, promised I to you;
Retreated beyond life, into its haze —

But, what, pray tell, are gentle souls to do
When anger only turns a soul to blaze,
For shadows grow in strength and number too...
Obscure, oblique... This life is but a maze...

And I am lost, and all the shadows, too
Should I find on my skin thine sharpened blades
And I would find my skin turn tanned to blue
'Fore I would e'er journey to dark malaise

...Though shadow distantly, coldly withdrew,
Though shining heart is mine, my soul ablaze,
I find neither shadow nor I can yet undo
What binding tied our souls, those fateful days

All

It has been said that
Cigarettes
Are a way to hold
Fire
In a human's hand

It has been said that
Wine
Is the source of
Life

I say that
You
And I
Are yet the depth of
Love

And love
Is
Life
Is
Fire
Is all of
Faith
Is
Truth
Is
All

Is
All

Is
All

Two

He wasn’t there at all; it was just the music that made her heart ache, swim, stir like those moments when they had kissed, when he had touched her hand, when he had reached to her cheek and held her so gently, stroked her hair softly, gave her all of the love that he now thought he couldn’t give.

He wasn’t there to kiss her thighs, to kiss her knees, to kiss her calves and her ankles, to worship her in that way that felt like she was a part of love, like they were both a part of the same love, worshiping some sacred moment, some higher power with every religious slip of a tongue, with every precious pressing of lips. Yet, he was there, the whole time: The music sang to her in the same way he moved along her body; it soothed her in exactly the same ways his lips broke — with easy, warm kisses — her iceberg tension; it enveloped her in exactly the ways his arms enveloped her, his energy wrapped around her; it slipped into her ears exactly as his breath, his conversation entered her mind, feeding her soul more thoroughly than any other nourishment.

He would be a part of her forever, now – as he had been a part of her through all the years apart, despite forgetting how she’d loved him once, long ago, in such a youthful, hopeless way. For now, they’d had conversations as adults; they’d made love as adults; they’d held each other’s eyes and bodies as adults:  with full consciousness.

She didn’t want any other, and she thought she’d likely wind up with another, at least for a time.

When she was with him, though… there was no other.  There was only him.  Two, alone, and her.

And that was all there ever needed to be.

Photo ©2017 MLM

Clichés

Please don't tell me how great I am
If you're just gonna walk away
Frankly, I don't give a damn
I'm here and now, let's live the day

Don't let's wait another year
Before we dare embrace again
Falter to love and not to fear
Spread wide your heart, let love begin

Please don't waste another word
In lieu of love, then run from me
They're all the same; they've all been heard
Don't tell us both I'm best left free

When it's excitement in your ear
And rambling thoughts that sound like fear
In the stillness of your heart's rush
Is still the shadow of joyful blush

You found a soul with a widespread heart
Embarked with a mind whose life is art
So, come back, now, into widespread arms
Let me thrill you with feminine charms

Don't tell me, please, how great I am
If you're going to walk away
Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn
Carpe diem, love; sieze me today

Photo ©2016 MLM

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

A Way Out

Nobody can make it “okay” except for you.

You’re struggling. I get it.  I’ve been there in so many ways, so many times, you wouldn’t believe it.

The only way out is you.

I’ve been penniless before.  I’ve starved three times in my adult life:  twice when I was pregnant with each of my kids.

I’m talking:

We daydreamed of what might be in the refrigerator,

we were so poor;

and that’s not even nearly the worst I’ve suffered through.

So, I get it.

But here’s the thing:

Find what you love,

not WHO you love.

Do what you love,

not WHO you love.

That solves everything.

Literally everything.

BE who you love;

That’s really the only step.

There’s just one. That’s it.

Your stories are, unfortunately, just a slow way for you to examine yourself until you can get to THAT TRUTH,

and, until you figure out THAT TRUTH, your stories are unfortunately just excuses.

I’m not dismissing you. I’m trying to help you.

But it is up to you to decide that you are committed to you.

Write.

Every single day.

You can use your computer, if you like.

Just use Notepad.

But write EVERY SINGLE DAY:

Write your stories;

Write them THERE.

Write about your frustrations.

Write about your dreams.

Write until you’re sick of hearing yourself write.

Write until you’re sick of complaining about the same old shit.

Write and write and write and write and write and write.

Something will break in you.

Don’t judge ANYTHING you think or feel.

Write it ALL there.

It’s your sacred place without judgement.

Let no one read it unless you feel like they are someone you feel you could die with:

I mean that very very literally.

Let no one read it unless you TRULY want to share it.

Write like it was going to save your life –

Because it WILL,

if you keep writing.

When you feel like it, go back and read old pages.

Write about your hopes, your dreams, your frustrations.

Write about how sick you are of whatever you’re sick of.

Write about how stupid I am for giving you this damned assignment – if that’s what you feel.

But WRITE

EVERY DAY.

Give yourself a word limit. You can write more, but not less.

You’ll fail.

Do it again.

Keep writing.

THAT is how I saved myself.

Part of it, anyway; but that was significant, huge.

That’s why you have to commit, first. You see?

Your conscious mind will find a way to express to you all of what matters, and the writing will tell your mind that these are the things that matter to you most.

It will focus on solutions for those problems

and it will help you find them;

but if you are dishonest

you are only cheating YOURSELF

and you will find yourself unhappy.

It’s as easy as this:

If you go to McDonald’s and order a Big Mac when you really want an ice cream cone, you can’t blame anyone except yourself for NOT getting the ice cream cone.

Understand?

And if you HATE McDonald’s?

You can’t blame the existence of McDonald’s.

You can only blame yourself for GOING there.

Super-easy, huh?

** With credit and profound thanks to Julie Cameron for her wise advice in The Artist’s Way and to the late Frank Herbert for his immense wisdom in all the books of the DUNE series – all of which has changed my life only because I took it all and made it mine.

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

Photo ©2016 MLM

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.

Photo ©2017 MLM

The Muse

“The trouble with a muse,”
(my dear friend said)
“is that one cannot control it.”

I am bound by the aches and pains,
By the emptiness and the questions that remain
In the absence and the silence of this reign
Of my forever love affair with you

I am bound to find the answers that may hide,
To bear the passion and the weakness of our tide,
The forever pull of being at your side
In my forever love affair with you

I wonder sometimes: If you loved me true,
If your sad heart could calm its changing hue,
If your mind's eye could see, at last, its due,
If your dear soul could finally renew
In your forever punishment of you
Would we, at last, unlock the clues
To a forever life of me-and-you?

But, who am I to ask of you to shift
When all we are has led us to this rift
Where our hearts hold fast and souls can freely drift
Amidst this waning love affair with you?

Photo ©2017 MLM

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.”

Photo ©2016 MLM

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.

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.

Photo ©2007 MLM

 

It is not humiliating to be unhappy. Physical suffering is sometimes humiliating, but the suffering of being cannot be, it is life.

Albert Camus, Notebooks 1951-1959  (via wordsnquotes)

 

If I had to describe her in one word, it would be ‘familiar’. Because when something is familiar, it’s comfort in the unknown. It’s nostalgia for a place you may have never been before. It’s the aching desire to be in the arms of someone who may have never even held you. It’s home away from home. It’s exactly where I want to be.

Connotativewords | jl | It’s exactly who you are to me (via connotativewords)

I wrote a poem about you once.
I was lonely one Tuesday night,
And instead of going straight to having conversations with the cracks in the walls or the creaks in my bones
I decided to pour the thoughts of you into ink
And immortalize you on paper instead.
You see, there’s a saying I read once that claimed that if a writer falls in love with you,
Then you could never die.
And if that’s true, love, then you’ll live on forever
Because I lied just now.
I didn’t write a single poem about you.
You are the kind of person who can’t ft into one poem.
You, you are worth odysseys, and stories, and grand myths
I could write novels about how your name fills my lungs like smoke.
And how my pulse seems to scream when your mouth hangs like a crooked painting.
I could write novels about how my hands will always search for yours in complete darkness, how you seemed to split open my heart
And I can’t stop the hemorrhaging of affection as it runs red rivers towards my fingertips.
My love, my dearest, my friend,
I could write hundreds of novels about you.
Just…You. And you’re magic ability to make me feel like my pieces aren’t just stitched up with trite promises and scotch tape.
This novel isn’t the biggest, and it won’t affect thousands of people,
But I’ll tell you right now that it affected me a thousands different ways.
A thousand different times.

maddyttot, Novels (via wnq-writers)

💗

So true.

So I’ll drink my coffee until my teeth are stained yellow and my tongue is burnt raw. I will nibble at my toast until it’s too hard to even look at. I will look out the window of the coffee shop and stare into the world. I will try to write my feelings down, but won’t utter not a word. And I will write about how I miss you and how I can’t eat or sleep anymore. And then the waitress will bring my check and I will sign away, no matter my debts. I will leave the coffee shop late, into the polluted streets of your favorite city. And I will walk till I reach the end of the sidewalk and my mind finally stops bugging me. I will. I promise.

m.j.w., “my promise to you” (via wnq-writers)

I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions.

James Michener
(via nothingwithoutwords)