the release has come.
a grateful breath.
retaining walls are
coming down
i light a cigarette.

suddenly, i can see.
all the reasons fell in to me.
close the door,
i'm not coming home.

out at night
i set the pace,
calling
for
a little grace...
i light another smoke.

i softly whisper to myself
god, i'm glad i made it.
i'll think of you
from time to time.
your crimson heart
and selfish lines.
i walk
alone
it starts to rain.
you
might need a smoke.

Took a pill of happiness this morning

it was small & kind of pink.

I swallowed it

Dry.

Time lapsed and I

felt great.

I looked around.

My fingers looked long

and my pulse ran quick.

I looked at the smoking cigarette

half burned.

Everything seemed surreal.

I took a breath.

I felt every cell

absorb oxygen.

I wondered how long I’d been

sitting,

thinking.

Time was now an issue.

I looked for a clock.

there was none to be found.

Some old coffee,

some magazines lying around

half read

waiting for their pages to be turned.

newspapers piled

carefully

in the corner,

And the cat meowed.

i can’t grasp

a

single thought

with this whirlwind

of emotions

and worries.

i can’t stand

on

one leg steady.

Somebody’s ready

to

pull

it.

There’s a sadness in her eyes.

Not the kind that cries out

but lies quiet.

Burning with passion unfulfilled,

and sorrow unspoken.

Alone she cries softly.

Her tears, no longer able

to withstand the pressure behind walls

so carefully constructed

to keep them inside.

She breaks.

Softly though.

No one notices behind her laughter.

Behind her ****** statements

and flamboyant nature

No one sees.

She hides the destitution she fights not to feel.

But alone…

The quiet atrophy of her soul,

the silent declarations of her loneliness,

the unlived joys that may never be realized,

all become too much, and she weeps.

But all that’s revealed, is a distant sadness behind smiling eyes,

that still twinkle amidst her laughter.

She said she’s a writer

i think.

coyly and in control,

her attitude

commands.

i listen, compelled to laugh by

her

rambling words.

They don’t make sense, and

i don’t really hear her

but the rambling

always brings a smile

to my lips.

She’s full of passion

and full of ****.

Maybe that’s why

i like her best.

Always the other woman.

Not the reality.

The fantasy.



Maybe that’s what I want or subconsciously seek.



To be only that.  The fantasy of one (or many).



Maybe I’m scared

that I’m not worth the real trueness of deep,

selfless, intimate love…

but rather

the “go-to girl” for their passionate, heat-of-the-moment,

over-the-top-excitement and

momentary bliss.



Always adored.

Never treasured and truly

cherished.

Not for one’s self entirely.



Always for a moment.

Never forever.

It’s always; “shhhhhhh… honey,

quiet your passion, I’ll call you later.”

It’s never now.

Always later.



A generously fulfilling future is always over the horizon.

I’m able to touch and feel it.

Just never hold it

or keep it

for my own.



Always the other woman…

The one that rescues you from yourself,

your miseries,

your lover or

lack thereof.

But who rescues me?

Who takes me in,

Like a bird with broken wings and

Keeps me?…



Tasting me on your lips

so sweet

The moment is always just that.

A moment.



I lose myself in them sometimes.

Thinking for a moment

That they could be mine.

Truly.

Fooling myself in the “if only’s…”, just for that second.

Forgetting what some many others

Have forgotten.



It’s always a moment.



Quiet my passion now.

My innermost feelings.  Renounce them.



“Be happy with what I’ve been given.” I tell myself.

That piece of you.

That tiny fragment.

A miniscule facet of what lies within you.

Don’t ask for more

It doesn’t exist…



…but for a moment.

Like a boxer

I’m on the ground.

But I’m getting up

to finish it.