A Thing Called Truth

Empty-handed, I turn up empty-handed, when I attempt to dissect my true feeling at this moment. How can I dissect nothing? I ask the question, only to receive an answer filled with silence. I shudder to think how deeply into the bowels of my pysche I may have to dig in order to locate truth. And, will I know it when I’ve found it, this alien thing called truth? And what shall I do, when finally, I find myself face-to-face with this thing called truth? Perhaps I shall pluck it out of myself, perhaps it holds the seed of this restlessness, of this complete absence of tranquility in which I find myself? There seems no way that I can disengage the sharp tines of this immense dullness which presses against my heart. No way except for waiting. Waiting.

Drunk with Rage

I wonder, always wonder, when we will have our last goodbye. I shudder to think, perhaps we have already had it? No, I choose to believe we will meet again. Until then, I remember you, my dangerous beauty, drunk with rage ~ a beautiful, broken piece of art. My art ~ beloved.

The Beauty of a Broken Thing

I feel a deep, yet dull, sadness  when I think of you ~ a hollow man, a black hole that devours everything substantial in its path. When sparing my life meant leaving you, my heart felt as though it dried up. You remain, to me, a question without an answer, a perpetual white-hot flame burning my heart, from the inside, out, and eating away at my soul. So many times you left me, leaving only your enormous absence. What of our love, if such a fragile entity ever existed? I cannot say, because putting it into words would only destroy any meaning of what lay between you and I.

I have tried to burn up my memories of you, of us. But the ashes only reconstituted themselves back into memories, each time rendering themselves more difficult to burn than before. When I ponder the beauty of broken things scattered across the formless soul of our union, I see so clearly that the broken thing is you, and not our relationship, not our love. Our love distills itself down to my love. A broken you has no capability of love. And love cannot, does not, ever break itself. Your inherent pollutants consumed you long before you entered my heart and my life. No matter how much I loved you, I could never fill the vortex inside you. No one could.

Train Wreck?

Loving you broke me wide open, like a shattered incandescent light bulb. My pain crept among the strewn wreckage, feeding itself, like a parasite. Loving you, I could not tell the difference between reality and the creations of my own heart. Such darkness enveloped me, so much so that I could only sit and wait for my pupils to dilate. And by the time I could see in that awful darkness, I had already begun to bleed, having cut myself on your barbed, razor-sharp thirst. I saw myself, taciturn, brooding, and waiting for exsanguination.

I tried to love you better with my mind, which I had stuffed like a barn full of impotent ideas and logic. No amount of armour could save me, could close the wound out of which my life force flowed so freely. This type of death has no smell. The end has long come and gone.

The sun has sliced through your thirst, severing it. And reviving me. I like to think that my wound has healed, leaving only a scar as its legacy, your legacy. At times I don’t feel so sure ~  down to the marrow of my bones, I still feel your absence. Perhaps that’s what this scar is ~ a physical membrane, an ugly container for my various perceptions of your absence?

Day 105

I’ve written you a letter. I wonder how long I’ll keep it at my bedside before mailing it. You’re frightening beauty lingers in my heart.

Language of My Heart

I tell myself that you led me astray, that I got lost, being with you. Forgetting my own language just to speak to you, I lost myself in translation. And, now, without you, I try to find myself. I have no map, no co-ordinates. The information flows within me. So, I cut myself and watch me bleed. Feeling pain, watching the blood flower out of me, gaudy as poppies, seems like a worthy remedy for this swarm of nothingness that makes me feel hollow inside. I think of running, but can’t seem to get away from myself, in order to find myself. I long for the city, long for its feverish streets, that make me forget what I do not want to remember. There you’ll find me walking down a road called despair, suffocating in the thick air, with concrete blocks for feet.

Day 95

Do you belong? You have such brilliance and frightening beauty that you almost seem …. out of this world.

Day 91

It depresses me, somewhat, the it of you. And so I turn to that place which always offers me solace and comfort ~ a scalding hot bath and the ensuing onset of heat exhaustion.