These familiar faces surround me, they have returned from places far away, come back home for this festive stretch of time, to half celebrate the end of one year and the start of a new one, the closing of strange chapters, they tell me things I have no desire to heed, they remind me of the role I fulfill in their dark souls, they have made me feel more alone than ever, here at the end of the year.
I think of the water washing up at level with the bank in the cold evenings as I stare at the twinkling lights across the river. My stomach rumbles as I think of the fulfilling prospect of hot food. I am happiest when I follow my friends back toward the restaurant.
Been a while, all in good purpose. Life has rolled by like the poetry of a wintery morning, filled with emotion and aroma and confusion. A table decorated with pretty eats as bodies gather around it, we say our thanks and continue the occasion. You come halfway across the world to roam streets I know like the back of my hand and I insist on a few things because it’s in my nature to insist despite trying not to. So you indulge and I bring you into my nights and you see where I come from. You see all the significant faces of my days. I see the way you look at them before you look at me, thoughts swirling in your gray eyes as you tell me nothing of what’s in your head. I come to where you are, to that gloomy and lovely place you reside in. You look at me the same way, on this side of the world where no one’s looking. Except everyone’s looking and it’s you and me. You smile as if you have nothing to feel but your eyes betray you every time I look your way. As the night wears on you get more comfortable, your curtains draw back and you’re free again. You tell me things you’ve buried a layer down and as your lips move I see who you are. I’m so pleased you’re indulging even if you’re still guarded. A little goes a long way. I willingly meet you further than the halfway point as it’s how I love, in wholes and not halves. But you’re still wounded and won’t completely lend over. I want to bottle up this love and send it out to sea. Who knows where we are tomorrow. Time is fleeting, my days are precious. I’m gone tomorrow, back to my coast, a world away from you. Your eyes look at me like I’m wild and captivating. I haven’t been looked at that way before. Come with me, I beckon silently.
I’m listening to your sounds
I’m feeling your crushing waves
of absolute force and precision
warning me to get down on my knees
and brave the chaos before the calm
and I’m here listening
to everything you have said
only to see where you are ahead
the form in the distance
coming closer and beckoning for color
anything that will make your plight
appear more palpable before sense
yet I attain truth before your arrival
and see everything with new eyes
a new soul, a new mind
the force with which I try to understand
yet cannot come to terms with
as it is so overwhelmingly beautiful
this clarity of the senses
a justification for all that has happened
to appreciate everything
and expect nothing
and see that above the skies
all else is simply noise.
You intrigue me with your definitions, euphemisms, lifestyles. I look in from the outside in earnest, attempting to think of myself in the same context. The way you speak to others in your glass box, how you articulate your thoughts in the confines, it makes absolute sense and yet none at all. You fascinate me in so many varying ways, my overwhelming hyperconsciousness holds on, contemplating meaning behind what is at best mundane. For I am one with your box, I play a role in your box but I have never truly belonged to your box. The painting that I search for cannot be found here, it does not reside in an artificially fortified construct, it lies beyond the wild greenery that awaits my discovery.
Take it back, stop giving it to me, I don’t want it.
This insistent but subtle beckoning;
your happy eyes, the understated artisan beer.
The cars zooming by, people hollering inside of them.
A midnight stroll to her favorite bar,
the stylish one that plays The Queen is Dead at last call.
Let’s sit under the vine canopy I tell my friend,
sip the fair-trade latte on an early summer afternoon,
its coldness sweating through the two-ply napkin
and onto the rusty garden table.
My spirit is part of this spectral landscape
but my soul looks in from a distance out west.
I can’t accept what you offer me,
this easy manner and thoughtless comfort,
the idle coolness of a momentary bout
of narcissistic congratulation and whimsy.
The temptation to jump into the pool,
to dive into this deliberately purposeless water
leaves me numb with indecision.
Kiss him she tells me over and over again.
I would kiss him a hundred times over
but not here on this street at this time.
Take it back, I tell her. I don’t want it.
Stay away from me, I tell him. I can’t have you.