Telling someone with Celiac Disease that they are the best thing since slice bread is not romantic…apparently.
The Ring
This message was deleted
That was the last thing I read from you. Having come home to find nothing of you left, besides your ring on the kitchen table. I sat at that table for sometime, before deciding to write you a simple one-worded message, ‘Why?’ This message was deleted, was the response. Deleted? How can you delete a memory? How can years be simply, deleted? That ring sat on the kitchen table, in the same spot, for exactly three months, with hope that its orignal owner would come back to claim it.
Three months and one day later, I decide to call your bluff. I take my ring off, placing it side by side to yours, and go to work. On my way home, there is an excitement and anticipation that I have not felt for some time. I rush to put the key in the door. And as I turn the lock, I expect something new, something different, some kind of change. But the truth, still remains the truth. There the two rings sit. Side-by-side.
We see each other out and about, neither one acknowledging the other. Each time, walking in our separate ways – which is exactly how it should be. I have no bad feelings towards you. None. Time, as they say, does heal wounds – old and new. And you know what? I still wear my ring, taking it off only and when I sit down at the kitchen table.
My Love
My love, I want to hold you close, locked in an embrace,
as we dance alone on the moon.
And who’s going to pay for that?, she replies.
And that’s when I realise, why I love her so.
Time Wasted
I’m running out of time,
with another day wasted,
fully aware, that this has all been one big flop.
I just didn’t know how to get to you.
And, my biggest regret?
I will never know what it was like,
to kiss those lips.
A Story of Us
The story of us.
There is no story really. Well not of ‘us‘ at least. Not yet. I just liked that line and thought I’d use it to write. To write this. You spoke with me today. You pulled me into a conversation, but so terrified that my dirty little secret will be found out, I pull away. And, you weren’t alone. Who’s he? He is so goddamn good-looking! I see the way you look at him, and know I can’t compete. I’m so jealous, that I just want to peel away.
The story of you.
Do you know that you have the most engaging smile? I am sitting in the dark, thinking. That’s what I’m doing right now, sitting in the dark, thinking about your smile. It was not supposed to turn out this way. This was not my plan. You were meant to be forgotten. You were meant to be never minded. I know that smile, and knew you would never be mine. My smile now stolen, by him. Who was that guy? And, Jesus Christ, why is he so goddamn good-looking?!
The story of me.
I existed before you, you know. I’m almost sure I did. Before I saw that smile, before I heard that voice, before, I saw that…face. Before, before, before. Before I saw you, I had a pulse, I’m almost sure I did. Who is that guy? He’s tall, and so goddamn good-looking. And, with a goddamn fucking beard! I mean, come on! I too, have a beard. Doesn’t that count? I know, I know. I’m not so tall, and I know, I am not so goddamn good-looking. But, like him, but just like him, I have a beard.
And like him, and just like that guy, I now have A Story of Us.
Every Day A Little Death
I’m in the pub and You Can’t Buy Me Love comes on. I know I can’t.
I sit, nursing a glass of wine for maybe two or three hours. Brooding. Thinking. I remembered the other night, while in bed, I cried. Not knowing why, but I thought of you. No thought in particular. Just a momentary flash. Lying there in the dark, I welled-up for a second, saw you were there and then fell back asleep. And now, the wine now in my head tells me I was upset because I don’t miss you.
I don’t miss much these days.
Every Day A Little Death remembered in the pub.
I wanted you to think me a genius. But I opened my mouth, letting the words fall-out one by one and in the process became a fool. You tell me to ‘go to hell’ and all I can do is laugh, which causes you to laugh. We both know I’m in hell. I love you, and I tell you so. ‘Yeah I know,’ you say. You too, are in my hell.
We still make love as if it’s our first time. You hold me, touch and caress me as you always have, turning what I think is minutes into hours. I want it to never end. I awake the next day, look in your eyes and feel like a complete failure. You feel it too, my failure. My new day in hell starts, and you come with me – to keep me company.
Back from the pub.
You are sleeping. I watch you. An exercise I have performed many times before. I stand in the dark. Watching. Listening. To you. You are just so beautiful, so fucking beautiful. I well-up. What the fuck are you doing with me? I want you to go away and find yourself some happiness. I won’t miss you, you know. I won’t. I crawl into bed, failing miserably not to wake you. You roll-over to me, kissing my back and neck. ‘I love you.’
Kissing your hands, your beautiful hands, I reply, ‘Yeah I know.’
Still?
You have a gift for deception.
Handing it out as if it is a gift from the Queen herself.
But what can one do with deception,
(which is just a lie in disguise)?
Especially a lie presented as a gift?
It cannot be unwrapped and then rewrapped,
with the hope of re-gifting it to someone else.
At least not intentionally.
I have re-gifted your lies.
Not realising that’s what they were,
I re-gifted your lies wrapped in betrayal,
and then tied, ever so cleverly,
in a ribbon of your deception.
You told me, once, you loved me. Once.
And so desperate to believe in fairy tales,
I believed you.
But the deception of love was not your greatest lie.
Having told that lie many times before.
You easily applied it as you do mascara.
With one grand stroke, Love is applied.
And what can be easily applied,
can just as easily be washed away.
But your greatest lie?
Never leaving. Always remaining.
Thinking that door was firmly closed,
I awake each morning to find you are here. Still.
You said you would leave.
Why are you here?
Still?
You told me too, you loved my voice. Once.
That it was beautiful.
You beckoned me, use that voice,
that beautiful, beautiful voice.
And as I spoke, you stole it.
Stolen to claim it as your own,
because you know you have none,
well not one that anyone would listen to.
I wake each morning to find you are still here,
And scream!
But it is wrapped in your deception,
and then tied in a ribbon of your betrayal,
so all I get is your still silence.
You said you would leave,
but you are still here.
Still.
The Judas
Her decision had been made.
She snuck in, past the guards, during the very early hours of the morning. Having found his cell, she stopped and stared at him. In the darkness, she could see his swollen face, beaten so badly, she thought him nearly unrecognisable. This, she had not expected. She made the journey because she convinced herself that she needed to see him one last time. To tell him she was sorry, that everything was going to be ok, and he would back in his home soon, surrounded by his family. But now here, those words would not come. She was too afraid, and even more ashamed to call-out to him. She stood motionless for 15 minutes (maybe more). Still no words came. As she left, she heard him mutter – but she did not stop. She kept her eyes forward, carefully slipping past the guards once more, never looking back.
The Jazz Singer
If I won’t be remembered for my songs,
I want to be remembered for your words.
Never stop talking my love.
Never stop.
Sarah’s Poem
Your love is like a rose.
With each touch,
your thorns make me
Bleed.
My love, a deep red.
As deep and as the red as the Blood at the Cross, bleeding (and dying) for your sins.
Your love is like a rose.
I give you my light, my sunshine.
You grow before my eyes,
as you wilt in my hands.
I am your reservoir.
You drink.
And drink.
And drink.
And drink, until I run dry.
And still thirsty, you drink more.
Your love is like a rose in winter.
Grey, cold…lifeless.
Naked.
Exposed.
Vulnerable.
I am your gardener.
I see your beauty during the long, cold winter days and nights.
I value your nakedness, your vulnerability.
I am your protector.
Your love is like a rose.
You only know when to love when things are good.
That’s when you bloom, with your petals ruby-red,
as ruby-red as the Blood at the Cross.
Your love is like a rose.
Each day,
you dying
for…
your…
sins.
*This poem is not about a ‘Sarah.’ But the real Sarah, Sarah Haines, who challenged me to write this, my second poem, by giving me the opening line, “Your love is like a rose…” and told me to run with it. And to her I am, as the cliché goes, I am eternally grateful.