Then, There were tears,
But they came too soon.
The problem is, we feel too much.

Let's find something to numb.

Nothing has changed, nothing will, not this way.
I am a poor fool, bound to you
And begging, on my knees, for every scrap you toss my way.
Reconnection leads to reinfection,
I am a sad fool,
A mad fool, to risk again, all that I have.
And yet, as you reach out…I am lost,
Clinging to virtual words, dreaming of a world that’s gone,
Trying to glue together something shattered
Wishing for time reversal, praying for a miracle
To salvage my remembrance of a desperate year.

A sweep of sick nostalgia,
At these old familiar mind games.

Second guessing,
Constant stressing.

Are you playing with me?
No, I'm playing with myself.
Mmmmm...and it feels good.

Something is worrying me,
Something that would at first seem laughably trivial,
but really isn't.
When we meet, as we shortly will,
Should I take you in my arms, like I desperately want to,
Or maintain a careful distance?
So much has happened.
And you say you regret everything, every day,
But I'm not sure I believe you,
And I don't share your regret.
I am scared that you will read the truth
In my embrace,
And that's the real dilemma.
I don't want to lie to you
And I don't want to lose you again.

I did not choose to love you.

I am never sure of anything.
I have questioned and agonized, second guessed
Every aspect of my life
For thirty seven years.
And now I am sure of something
It is an impossible thing
And it shreds me, from within.

We do not choose who we love.

Everything I ever believed
Was a misunderstanding of the true nature
Of all that we aspire to.
Thirty seven years
And I knew nothing.
I am on autopilot, every atom reaching out
Every thirsty cell screaming for a drink of you.

I think you love me, too.

Oh God, it would be great, wouldn't it?
These were your words, not mine.
Sweet poet, speak to me again,
I ache for your words.
Mine are redundant, recycled, rehashed, and replayed.
I ache for you, I ache for the sound you made, in your throat,
As I ****** your finger, and tickled the tip with my tongue.
Sweet poet, speak to me again,
Offer me that finger, and everything you have,
Offer it all to me,
Please, please, please.

It is not my heart that is breaking.

We are lost and ever abandoned.
You let the waves engulf me,
I'll let you think I drowned.

It is not my heart that is breaking.

All that shattered shall be mended,
You made the decision to let me fall,
I'll let you scatter the pieces.

It is not my heart that is breaking.

I cannot sleep until you're home. The second that you slip under the sheets beside me I will allow sleep to take me, almost brutally. Having you beside me is enough, there need be no communication.

No-one is closer to me than you and yet, I lead a secret inner life that I just can't explain to you. I have no idea how you would respond if I were to communicate these truths. Some of these thoughts make little sense, even to me. It is enough just to have you by my side. No-one can, or should, know everything about another. You know, without knowing.

But you will be home soon. I lie here, so far from sleep, yet exhausted, and trace the contours of your face in my mind, over and over again. Your face is like granite, you are bearlike, fierce; safety, protection and sleep. You will be home, and I will lose myself in dreams that I cannot fall into while you are absent. In those dreams, there are things I cannot face alone in this bed.

You will be home, to free me from exhaustion, you will come home.

Hurry home.

Do you want me to feel small?  Shall I make myself small for you, now?
Tiny, tiny, tinier than the tiniest of things?
(they've found some very tiny things)
Am I too LARGE for you?
Do I embarrass you?
Do you think that I embarrass myself, with my H U G E N E S S?
My big voice, my *******, my BIG brazen ways?
I am not embarrassed.
I am not tiny.
I am not sorry.
It's deliberate.
You are the small one.
So small
So very small
That you
Might
just
Disape-

Savouring the wait,
Laying out the bait,
Listening,
Glistening.

Groan escapes your lips,
Slight shiver of hips,
I know
You grow.

Finally, I feel your touch
Subtle pressures, not too much,
We'll play
Your way.

Hands upon me, with insistence,
Growing rough, meet no resistance,
Capture
Rapture.

I can eat chocolate until I want to *****,
Down ***** until the room spins,
Pump weights until my muscles disown me
Or walk for miles until my legs tremble
And my heart calls for help in panicky spasms.
I can do all these things, again and again,
I can hate myself, berate myself, and half **** myself,
But I can't escape myself,
So I am as well forgive myself,
Love myself, accept myself,
And try to find redemption from within.

I looked at you, appraisingly
And felt very little,
Could even call it nothing.
How could all those feelings disappear – and where are they now?
Lying dormant, waiting to be reactivated
By your hungry, longing glance?
Or gone forever, welcome realisation
Prompting utter disregard?
My inspiration has fled with the feelings,
So bring back the longing,
The anger, the aching, and the angst.
I cannot lose
My one and only muse.

The theme for this year
Is betrayal
Both delivered and received.
I have yet to decide
If I am made stronger
Or more fragile
By experiencing both.
I am certainly
A great deal sadder
And a lot more careful
About who I trust
Including myself.

I understand why they talk about a fine line.
It hurts my heart to look at you,
A physical pain
Manifesting in palpitations.
The western way to deal with pain
is to excise what hurts, what has malfunctioned,
What has gone bad within us.
In order to excise you,
I must force myself to hate you.
The alternative damages me.
I have to cut you out.