Life is one of those funny things. Once you think you have it figured out, it changes. Drastically. Good change, bad change. It doesn’t matter. On occasion I’ve even been known to confuse the two. They both carry an emotional weight that can leave me hyperventilating, wishing I never set foot on whatever path led me there. Sometimes it’s even a small change that brings about a tidal wave. A desire that refuses to be stilled. A smile. A word. It ripples out into the world. The power of change cannot be denied. It simply is, a fact of life.
It starts in a rush, the low thrum of vocal reconnaissance. It carries along the skin, stands the hairs on end. Such a simple thing, this rumble of words. They reverberate deep in your chest, catch in your throat. Live in my ears. All the things you have to say fumbling over me in tidal waves. Trapped and wrapped in vulnerability, this sound penetrates all defenses. It’s welcomed to the core. Changing integral parts of me, these spider fingers of filigree wander old corridors, tickle bones, wrestle muscles and sinew to life. Everything sings because your voice rains down gold.
Oh, the things I am going to do to you. Your death will seem quaint, bordering some line of eloquence and elegance. Okay, so it wasn’t death, but my how you inspire when glimpsed from the bottom of your infinity pool. I cannot tell a lie. You brought me to some strange place with an idea and a face. Emerging from an imaginary queue, as if an actor on audition, though, I’m not sure who is auditioning for whom. With a sparkle in your eye, curled lip exposes fang. Why Tristan, is than an invitation to bite or be bit?
Strumming strings, beaten drums, cascading piano keys sweeter than crashing waves, however it comes, music is the drug. Lyrics, primal in screamed out words or etheric with haunting timbres and hushed low sounds, mumbled and googled for meaning. Sometimes that doesn’t even matter. It is the rhythm, how it repeats, the song constantly playing in my head. I am lost on mountain peaks to voices speaking in ancient tongue. Traveling on sheer emotion, lifted up, inspired, romanced, energized, brought down, the sad song, singing away my blues. Books are the soul of my eyes, songs, the heart of my ears.
Burnt. It was how I made my eggs – which always left me thinking of you. When did I tire of the highborn drama, the ranting and raving? Was that just yesterday? You left me carcinogenic with a rotted out core. Used up and adrift far from the shore. Burnt like my toast, unable to be salvaged with a scrape of the knife. Soul hungry and weary with nothing left to give. And yet there is a spark, a space that cannot be touched, a place where burns cannot leave a mark. Here where I stand, on the opposite shore.
It slides, slipping degree by degree down that slippery slope. A dark diamond, exquisite, tear shaped, catching light along this fiery plight. The pain so ripe, showing me how blood blossoms in beads. Jagged edges, little nicks, cutting flesh, leaving scars upon the heart. Strange how fragile the pain, an elixir of tears in crystal drops. So much more weighty than joy. It wears me low. I crave only dark, a place to shut my eyes. I’m so tired. Vibrating through my nerves, the pain reminds me I am alive. Even here, caught in a landslide, I can still feel.
Like any book nerd, I’m constantly searching for good books. My favorite place of perusal are used bookstores. The real kind with paperbacks shoved in piles against walls and stuffed on copious shelves that one gets lost between. The slight musty hint of paper/glue lingering in the air. Back in the day, there were no benches, comfy couches, or coffee. Only nooks to lean in and floors to sit on. Books there had dog eared pages, well-worn covers and bent spines attesting to other people’s empty love affairs. I rescued as many as I could before Kindle. **Thank you Bookworm Continue Reading →
Old socks, comfortably worn with threadbare jeans. The favorite shirt, stained and faded, hiding the bra that refuses to die with the poked out underwire. Too soft, too well worn, like part of my skin sown inside out with red thread. Stretched out elastic, tiny holes, unraveling strings, popped buttons, weaved cotton, rayon, polyester blend, frayed and abraded from contact sports and sliding seats. The snagged silk, dry-clean only. The hand wash fiasco, dry flat sweater, shrinking and warping with each go round in washer and dryer. All, beloved items yet the closet is full, it needs to be purged.
Character drops word bomb. Roll with it or not? Check gut. Roll with it. Think this is stupid. How can this possibly make it to the final edit of the book? I’m only wasting time writing these words. Pour heart out on the page. Don’t hit delete. Just leave it to marinate overnight on the page. Come back, debate. Let it marinate some more, tweak and find I’ve been pulling this thread the entire time since before I ever put a word down on a page. This is good. Continue with plot and character arcs. Got a new word bomb.
It runs in your veins creating ice trails through that splintered heart. I didn’t see the crystal shards embedded in your blue blooded, pale hand or the deep-freeze under ninety degrees that never thaws. It lingers in your voice, the cold, detached goodbye, the frosted turned cheek, and the dismissal with your eyes. How I wish we never got involved. I’m tired of the hardened heart, the chill of this empty bed, the heat misplaced and displaced. How simple things roll off your banks and careen down mountainsides laden with snow. Caught in the avalanche and buried in your cold.