MidNight Revelation

Hello to my Green eyed midnight revelation. You twisted time and the sheets, we didn't even see morning coming.
Dawn over took the sleepless hours like a train car passing, without a care, whistling away into the skin-tender memories of hours before.

You, all tall tension, are wearing trouble like the latest fashion.
Decked out in bewares, cautions, and smoldering smiles with a wink and a come hither stare.

This Night

I am bouncing off of so many collective walls
and somehow
am sitting perfectly still.

My blood is racing through my still veins. My thoughts round the moon and back. But I remain beneath the floral sheets.

Hot. So hot. To touch. And my mind, so far gone in the years. No where to be found, yet ever, piercingly present.

And on This Monday..

The room is cold, and full of light. Sitting on a quilt, not made of flowers, but made of flowers. And all things good are coming. Not only coming, they're here. I am here. I am in the cold room, with the open curtain window, staring at the light patches across the street from the neighbor, unknown. But, despite all this, melancholy is somehow a visitor in this bright space.

I wouldn't title it a true sadness, no, not the heart breaking type, or the weeping kind, oh no, but the loss of familiarity. Good thing it is nothing new. The familiarity of touch, of voice, of knowing...

yes. Perhaps, as they say, in post cards and movies, it's all for the best. You can't hug a dead thing. Or serve two masters. As the cliches say. Magnets, tote bags, they all say it loud, say it proud. But yet.. I miss the knowing. Miss the needing. Miss the unmentionable moments of action words that end in 'ing'. Perhaps it's the missing alone that is where the melancholy is born.

Without detail, without touching, kissing, licking, fondly recalling, tracing, all of everything...

I miss.

Something profound. And I try happiness on. Like a designer garment, top of the line, look how sharp and how people stare. But if they sought to find the label, it's a counterfeit. My joy, this smile, the happy, raggedy andy patched up. A knock off. But, oh, do I not look smashing?

In the quiet, in the cold room..

I miss you.

I hate you.

Who do I talk to now? Now. Now that you're infuriating all on levels. Personal, private, intimate.

Harboring an irrational desire to scream until all the anger is gone leaves little done.

You did it.

But I allowed it.

and I knew..

so much better.

Ya know...

I've kissed too many people that don't hold back. Yet can't hold on.

I lose myself in my own memories. And in snapshot thumbnail photos. Here you are, there you go, and yeah, myself? My lonesome self.

It's frustrating. Or annoying. Or a combo of said two. A dog chasing a tail thinking its chasing a rabbit. All you get is sick bored and dizzy as all get out. Staring.

Breathing in a ball. Balancing on a popsicle stick of remembrance. Sticky summer days, star laced nights, chilled december romps in stolen times. I robbed myself blind.

Empty pockets. Threadbare young lady. A skeleton case of 'I love yous', chasing the phrase through the years. The intoxication of a longed for, prolonged, fledgling moments. Too weak to soar. Ambitious enough to leap.

Kicking pebbles, one by one, down the cliff into the valley. Hear those echos. Faint, fainter, sweetly fade.

And I stand, more or less, desolate on some barren hillside. Crying to the wind. Counting my tears. Wishing I had vials to be a storybook, to be romantic, to catch each one and name the second, so that my small jar resounded with watery memories.

But no...

I sit. Realistically barren. Suburb couch bound. Sipping wine, cheap wine, cold wine, but my own wine.

And whine.

at 7 p.m.

I want to be with you.

I want to be with anyone.

______

I'm craving

all of it.

One day, someone will lay a touch

on to me

again.

I'm yearning for that someday.

Panting

for a someday.

Anyday

now.

Any time.

I'm weary

I'm anxious

I've grown used to shadows on the wall. Day light falls.

I want it.

I want it all.

Resolute.

Fell off the map again.

Today.

Seem to be continually

unstable

in terms of

longevity.

Fast, and fleeting.

Spying blue ribbons. Skip. Hop-scotch like. Over my place.

It's feeding a deeper hurt. Playing into a deeper stream.

Life's nicks start to accumulate, and moments such as these, bridge the gap.

We drown.

Gasping. In sorrows. Large, real, all there, all present, all loving, sorrows. They fall like individual drops. Creating a flood.

Flooded.

Perhaps belief is the hardest pain. Believing you're worth it. Outside the circumstance. Believing that, someone, won't leave you. That you're smart enough to stay the course. Away from hazards. Boulders disguised as clouds. Prone to crush than to lift.

Wanting to take finger nails to memories. Etch out the knowing. Claw away the was. Deep. Into the unseen. Remove the pieces that remain. The memories.

And wash it all new.

Bouts of bravery surface now and again. Like islands into the all consuming emotions. Reason stands there, directing the waves, casting the moon about to order the tides. But Sorrow lingers. Edging sanity off the fringes. Prowling lions of memory, devouring the strong, steadfast moments.

It's then, then that she retreats the book and couch, the blinds with pale light, displaying the slitted sun gone sky. To the room. A small chair. In which her wishing it was smaller body curls. Knees up, head down, soft sobs, and black tears. With no energy at all.

And all that was....

Forming a mosaic. Chagall day dreams of past fires and floods. The tracing of love.

It's so painful to grow old. In our heart beats, and our tears.

Knowing. Forever knowing. And knowing..forever.

All at the Base of the Shade Tree...

Hover, in the silent pulse of a sweat bee licking at a weed,
Cat eyes as green as the grass in which she sits,
Shadow cut, piano face of black and white, nose to windy leaves

Home and haven in the branches,
home and haven in the shade,
at the base of the shade tree.

Here, your roots are exposed.

The sun paints bare tree shadows on the yellowed broad faced garage, like the veins of a leaf.
Ghost of natural wood on man-made car house, actual junk house.

The scars on my skin pink in the April afternoon...

I hear a baby cry.
The tree behind me is riddled with holes. The bugs make a carcass out of the lightening struck stump.
I hear them too.
The sounds of decay.

They eat away.

Bird songs muffle the sounds of decay...

Rest now, in the base of the shade tree.