Words fail me.
My voice seems a weak, discordant thing.
Mangled, quiet, confused.
Echoing in my head repetitively.
Betrayed by words
Can kill you
But never in your power
A source of deception
To own a thing by naming it
To capture its essence in a sound
Reduced the sound to abstract symbols
And train your mind to think the word was greater than the reality.
I live a life with a cardboard cut out.
A place holder.
An imaginary friend
Who I forget is there.
I lie in bed at night with pillow on either side of me
Large pillows that feel like another body next to me
Which ever side I want to sleep on
I have a pillow to hold.
I can't sleep without the sound of a running ceiling fan.
It drowns out all other sound
Like a heart beat or another breath.
I never cook
But I love to cook.
I love to experiment with cooking.
But when you don't have much money
And only yourself to feed
There is no need to impress anyone
And I don't feel the same sense of satisfaction
From delighting my own taste buds.
I take a lot of pleasure from the emotions of others.
I live vicariously through them.
I love to watch TV shows or movies with friends.
Their laughter makes things funnier
Or maybe I'm just laughing at how hard they are laughing.
Women get more emotionally involved with films.
It is fun when they become emotionally attached to entirely fictional events.
I'm a little too detached, I think.
Without company, television and movies aren't much fun.
The conversations I miss most of all.
Our conversations seemed to go on forever.
Or is my memory wrong?
Were there many uncomfortable silences
Or periods when we were just plain boring?
I don't remember it that way.
I remember long-winding conversations spiraling to and from every point
From irrelevant pop culture to social observations to spiritual philosophy
Nothing left unexplored
And no end in sight.
The mornings are always disappointing.
I never remember a dream
But wake with my mind racing
On trivial things
The same things I think of when I'm awake.
Morning wood tempting me
I sometimes resist.
But usually I lie deep under the covers
My sore eyes struggle to focus on the alarm clock
I wake up way too early.
I always wake up way too early.
Waking, like sleeping, is a waiting game.
Staring at the clock for hours
Negotiating the minutes in my mind
But I always wait as long as possible
Gathering the blankets close around me to protect me from the morning air
Finally, I crawl out of bed frozen and with a haze in my brain.
I stumble into the bathroom
My eyes adjust to harsh white light.
I try to focus on the tub
And spot the daily trail of ants seeking water.
I try to drown as many as possible with the shower head.
It's an ugly way to start the day.
And I spend the time thawing
Trying to prepare for a new day
And knowing that when it is over
I have this to look forward to the following morning.
Showers are a much better thing to share.
A cramped, awkward, and dangerous shower shared
Is far better than a spacious one alone.
Someone to wash your back for you
And tweak your nipple when you aren't expecting it.
Warm, wet bodies.
Nothing quite like the sensation of a warm, wet, naked hug.
And is it my imagination
Or are people more beautiful in the shower?
She's a good girl.
I love her deeply.
The sweetest laugh.
The brightest smile.
She thinks the world of me.
And attributes to me wisdom
That I doubt I have.
She holds me with affection
And fears I'll one day leave.
I hold her closer.
Protecting her like porcelain.
But all I want
What I really need
Is for her to hold me down.
I don't need much.
I don't want much.
Not a slap
But a tug on the leash.
A subtle reminder
That she holds me
Not because I let her
But because my heart does.
Only then can I be free.
That she would but think to claim me.
That she would choose to have me.
If she could only know
The power she possesses over me
If only she would claim it.
I long for the strength of surrender.
The feeling of purpose and dedication.
With the love that such a close bond must engender.
But I can only love you as a father does
Protecting but never nurturing.
Always guiding, but never guided.
Always carrying the burden.
What a wonderfully descriptive word
Like a fish lying on the dock
Desperate to return to the water
But not possessing a single muscle capable of navigating the alien landscape.
By chance alone
His floundering might enable him to reach the water
But when chance and strength fail
The fish stops struggling
Only a few flips and flops
More instinct than ambition
Until it is just trying to breathe