Tag: lovers

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The Inconvenience

The inconvenience of the coincidence, left me infused with the confused and the determination to be a lot more pre-dict-ta-ble.   As it is told, my country of birth is a mere coincidence (much like Columbus’ coincidental boat ride to India – so I’m told). My ability to read and write?  A coincidence,  no explanation needed.   For every affect there must be an effect, [so I was told].  If we can explain it via the science, then what we have is a ‘coincidence’ (con in science)

Coincidence is King, and I am its joker.  I choose my words carefully (and not so carefully, sometimes).  But why had I even bothered!  It is coincidence’s words that hail supreme.  My words (and my thoughts) screamingly falling behind.  ‘Coincidence is dead, long live Coincidence’.  I am a walking and breathing example of the inconveniences of my all coincidences – from my birth to my eventual death.  ‘Cause of death?’ they will ask. Coincidence. 

I once fell in love (ok maybe more than once, I will admit),  the crazy drug-like euphoria and rush a coincidence.  Or have I, once again, fallen into the con in science?  And dare I say, by coincidence, I too have fallen-out of love, which I can assure you was both totally and utterly inconvenient: I left infused in the confused but now, feeling much more content in knowing it was all down to a mere…. coincidence.

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You are…

Let me be the person that tells you, every single morning,
that you are both beautiful and remarkable.

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WGBN

Some day people will ask, ‘what inspires you the most?’ I will turn, look at you, and without having to say one word, they all will know my answer.

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The Long Goodbye

Unable to hold back my tears, as I packed a suitcase. ‘Why are you leaving? This just makes no fucking sense!’ You are yelling, taking things out of the suitcase, as I put them in. I have to admit, it made no sense. None whatsoever. I am in love with you. There is no doubt in my mind about that and have been since that first day you spoke to me. I knew that I wanted to marry you even before our first date. When I’m with you, when I’m holding you in my arms, when I’m kissing your lips, when I’m close to you, my world is complete. And that is the issue, without you, I am not whole. I am not free.

But I don’t say any of that. It wouldn’t help you to understand any better. Instead, I close my suitcase, and leave the house, our house, knowing that I’m leaving behind things I will never recover, and drive off hoping that I can make myself complete without you.

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King

With each kiss, I expect you to turn this old toad, into a Prince.

But with each kiss, I become a King.

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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.

7

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Sarah’s Poem

img_0516Your 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.

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You Won’t Let Me

57ca8d18-4ea7-41cf-9b1f-d8f638c02b14

I turn the page.

You turn it back,
your hands dirty with old ink.
You let go of your future, so you can hold onto the past.
I want to dance, but my legs won’t let me.

Odourless.

The smell of yesterday’s worries.
I worried too, not for me, but for you.
Worried with songs and laughter, not for you, but for me.
I want to sing, but my voice won’t let me.

Tasteless.

I feed you a taste of your tomorrow.
This is your chartered trip to your undiscovered lands.
I watch you cry.
I want to speak, but my mouth won’t let me.

I am your pod.

Consume, replicate and then duplicate me.
You cling to my future, so you can hold onto your past.
I want to breathe, but my lungs won’t let me.

Empty words.

You feed me your empty words.
I take your words and fill them with meaning.
My meaning.
I want to hate you,
but my legs,
my voice,
my mouth,
my lungs,

and my heart

won’t let me

 

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The Other Day I Wondered

40d16a01-3944-4ec4-8736-e7fcabf663ccThe other day I wondered, who you spent Valentine’s Day with?
Was it a him?
Was it a her?

I wondered the other day, was that look for me, or was that look at me?
Did I mis-judge your smile?
Your stare. That stare, was it in my mind?

The other day I wondered, if you knew, I once stared (and stared),
and stared, at the back of your neck, waiting to ask if you needed a seat.
I lie, I just wanted to know if you needed my seat. Instead, I sat.
And I sat. And I sat, eyes closed, listening, listening, listening.
I listened to your voice.
I watched. I watched as you found another, a seat that is.

Gone.
My first of, what I now know, many chances, gone.

I wondered the other day what it would be like to lay next to you. No I lie, I wondered what it would be like to lay with you, entangled, enveloped; to look in your eyes; to kiss your lips, your neck; to touch your skin;

To…
To…
To…

The other day I wondered,
do you even know,
I exist?